i should let u know that the plot is gonna be really bad bc i had full freedom on this

sorry

SO i wanted to do a comforting theme bc i feel like thats what ppl would like but at the same time its a bitch to write and id rather have fun LMAO

anywho i tried to not specify like outfit details (making it too masc or fem or whatever) incase u prefer a suit over a dress but i totally wrote with a fem reader in mind so im sorry for that

Not like this is reallyyyy the place to put it but I just wanted to reiterate that BOTH of my blogs r for 16 and up!!! I really don't want y'all here if ur not!! I've started (respectfully) blocking ppl on here i suspect are below 16 as my content changes/features more mature themes. ok thanks bye

You're no stranger to being ignored or avoided. Every middle schooler has experienced the onslaught of feelings that comes with getting ghosted by their entire friend group at least once, after all—when there's suddenly no more room for you at the table during lunch, and you're being picked last for group projects. It's a yucky, foreboding feeling that gathers in your gut and mixes with all the anxiety and insecurity a middle-schooler already has to begin with, and it lingers far after the fact.

You'd just never thought you'd feel that way because of Nil, of all people.

He likes his space and solitude–you're well-aware of that–but you're not strangers. You've spent countless nights in your backyard, sword-fighting with sticks and watching the sky turn dark. He's seen you through probably every single mortifying, cringeworthy phase you've gone through, and even confided in you when the comfort of home wasn't an option. You did, in fact, also trauma bond over the Algebra course you shared in eighth grade.

You really only began to notice your interactions had grown scarce and brief when he slowly stopped showing up during lunch, often wandering off elsewhere for that short 30-minute period and disappearing before you'd have the chance to catch him.

"Is Nil avoiding us, or something?" you'd once leaned over and murmured to Momo, glancing at your opposite side. Nil favored Dimitri's cool and casual nature, sure, but there were times when he'd sit by you and let you talk his ear off for a bit. You liked that.

Momo, unbothered as always, had simply shrugged and flashed you a cheeky smile.

"I wouldn't word it that way," she'd responded coolly, nudging your shoulder a few times. You'd only tilted your head.

"Okay? Then where's he at?"

To that, Momo didn't reply. Not audibly, at least, as if waiting for you to figure it all out on your own. She cast you a knowing smile before returning her attention to the ancient Gameboy in her hands.

Maybe Nil's not intentionally avoiding you during lunch. Maybe all the schoolwork he'd refused to do months ago was finally caught up to him to bite him in the ass, and now he's gotta sit in some classroom solving French crosswords and composing essays.

But even then, conversations are curt and strained, and rather one-sided. Not only that, but he seldom walks you home anymore. It's not like it was all that common for him to agree on making the short walk back to your house, but if you'd ask really nicely, sometimes he'd cave, so long as there was a quick stop at Junkie's on the way. Now he gets all antsy, makes up some lame excuse, and runs off into the woods.

Quite honestly, you're a little hurt. Very hurt, actually. This really does feel like seventh grade all over again, where every day played out like an episode of PEN15, and somewhere along the line, you'd lost a few really close friends. You'd argue seventh grade was worse than this, though.

Regardless, you're absolutely gonna wring his neck out the next time you run into him—if ever.

Thankfully, prom is only three short weeks away—a good chance to get out of the house and enjoy whatever lame party the school manages to throw, given their budget—and you'd rather not have to trouble yourself with Nil's mood swings.

You've spent a decent amount of both time and money on your outfit, doing your best to ensure it aligns with the theme. You thrifted what you could, but considering Pine Point's mall—if it can truly even be considered one—is insanely lame and barren, your choices were slim. A nice, clean outfit, accessories, and matching shoes are plenty.

You're later than you really planned on, though you're sure you're not missing out on much. The school's minuscule budget could surely only cover a few boxes of pizza, a bowl of punch waiting to be spiked, and some streamers from the Dollar Store.

Still, you take hasty steps inside and down the hall where the gymnasium is located. Even though the doors opened a good fifteen to twenty minutes ago, a few students continue to file in through the entrance in groups, donning clean tuxedos and pretty floor-length dresses. The hallway's lights have all been turned off, but you can see the streamers hanging from the wall as they catch the light from the street lamps outside, giving them a subtle glint as you pass by. You can already hear the latest grunge-y, hard rock hits blasting on a few speakers, along with shuffling heels and overlapping voices. The doors are propped wide open by heavy rocks from outside, revealing a pitch-black gym lit by a few multicolored strobe lights and balloons floating through the crowd, getting kicked about. Some students grab them and squeeze them until they pop. It's almost intimidating how large and rowdy the crowd is, despite being less than half an hour into the actual events. Your school is small—and therefore so are the junior and senior classes—but when everyone is packed in one room, they certainly seem much bigger.

You suck in a breath and head in, doing your best to politely weave through the crowd without stepping on anyone's toes. You wander around aimlessly for a bit, visiting with a few school friends and asking about your group's whereabouts. They all point you in different directions, though a few only shrug their shoulders in response, eventually mistakenly leading you right to the punch table. You spare it a glance.

The punch in question is a funny purple-red color and almost entirely finished off. You take the ladle and stir the liquid around a bit before pouring some into a little plastic cup, taking a hesitant sip. It tastes like fruity yogurt, but you aren't complaining. It's plenty to soothe your already sore throat from yelling over the music. There's probably a few ounces of hard seltzer or Everclear or something strange mixed in there, but you don't mind; if anything, you could use it. You go back for another sip before choking when a heavy hand comes down on your shoulder, swiveling you around on your heels.

"Yoo, you made it!" Momo exclaims in your face, shaking you gently before letting go and grabbing your tiny cup of punch, taking a sip for herself. She gives you a quick look-over, nodding a little in approval.

"Nice," she mouths, quirking her brows at you in a playful manner. You beam and look at her outfit—you've always wondered if she'd choose a dress or a suit in a more formal setting.

Neither, apparently. She's wearing a pair of distressed jeans, a white long-sleeve shirt, and one of those T-shirts with the corny slogans on them from Spencer's on top of it.

"Huh. Sick shirt," you say, blinking at it a few times. She grins with visible pride.

"I know!! I got it on clearance. It says, "I peed in the pool"!"

You nod along. "I can read."

Momo punches your arm before leading you right back into the crowd of ditzy, dancing teenagers, dragging you along behind her. You're jabbed in the gut by a barrage of elbows and waving hands in the process. You try to mind other people's feet and long dresses on the way. Momo continues pulling you across the gym before stopping in front of Journey, Dimitri, and Nil, all lingering by the bleachers. She presents you to them like it's show-and-tell.

"Lookit who I found!"

"Hey, there you are," Dimitri remarks, having to shout a little over the music. He flashes you a relaxed smile. "We were looking all over for you."

He's wearing a clean suit and a cute little bow tie, his hair parted and styled neatly. You nod in understanding and defend yourself by pointing out that you had to jump-start your car, which pushed back your arrival by at least ten minutes. He laughs and promises to drive you next time. He's already got a pretty blonde on his arm. You don't quite recognize her, but she goes as far as to give you an eager wave, so you return it with a wobbly smile.

Journey gives you a friendly smile and an eager wave, dressed up in usual prom attire and even a tiny flower in the pocket of his tuxedo. Everything looks so clean and put-together—his mom must have picked everything out.

Your eyes widen a little in surprise when you spot Nil standing off to the side, brooding. For once, he's dressed just like everyone else—a tux, some kind of tie, and shiny dress shoes. His hair is still spiky and unruly, though.

You like it that way.

"Aw, you guys look nice!" You're talking to the whole group, but your eyes settle on Nil.

Nil glares at you for a second, his brows knitting together and his face growing hot, before he hastily averts his gaze elsewhere.

"...thanks," is all he responds with, almost a murmur you can hardly hear over the music.

You smile and nod once, awkwardly averting your gaze and instead looking back to Momo, who's got both hands on your shoulders, shaking vigorously as she tries to get you to join her in the "Cha Cha Slide". Unfortunately, you'd sooner die than pass that up. It's a bummer—this is the first time you've really had the opportunity to be one-on-one with Nil, and you'd just love to ask him about who or what convinced him to show up.

Dimitri's eyes flicker down to Nil as he nudges his shoulder with his elbow, repeatedly glancing between him and you with an expectant look, trying to hint that he probably should've complimented you in return long ago. Nil grumbles below his breath before reluctantly looking you in the eye.

"You look...nice, too."

Your eyes grow wide and dart to him again. You want to kick yourself for daring to feel an ounce of relief, as if everything is suddenly back to normal and you can go mess around in the Walmart parking lot like always. Still, you thank him before you're dragged back to the dance floor with Momo.

You end up sticking around, even when the song ends. Momo makes for a pretty okay dancing partner, and she partially makes you, pulling you back and promising it'll be "just one more song" whenever you sigh or whine about how your feet are beginning to ache. However, you're not complaining. She's not the best at dancing—at least, not traditionally—but she takes your hands in hers and waves them around, bumping your hip with her own and twirling you around every now and then, and tries to pull something really stupid every so often, like dipping you mid-song, only to drop you flat on your back.

You flail around with just her for a good while—definitely a few songs past intended—until she manages to rope everybody else in, having to cling to the collar of Nil's dress shirt and physically drag him along. You walk around the gym, gossiping and laughing a little too loudly. Nil is rather silent, only occasionally glancing at you from his peripheral and grumbling stuff you can never seem to catch below his breath.

After a good hour of stumbling around and bulshitting, you find yourselves grouped by the punch table yet again; however, this time, both bowls are empty, having been finished off long ago. You stand off to the side in an awkward clump with tired legs and sore throats from all the yelling you've had to do over the music.

Momo sticks around to snack on all the free cookies and snacks, but vaguely mentions dipping soon to go hit her bong back at home or something stupid like that, and Dimitri briefly entertains the idea of joining her. He also mentions wanting to go do donuts in some empty parking lot after the dance, making his date laugh and whoop enthusiastically. You quirk a brow as everyone discusses their after-party plans even though you've really only been here for two hours or so.

The music still plays, and balloons still float about the gym; however, a good portion of the students are seated at the many tables scattered around the perimeter. Girls toe their heels off and rub their sore feet, sure to be sporting a few blisters the following morning, and boys pull at their collars and loosen their ties, undoing a few buttons to combat the warmth. Some shamelessly reveal flasks from inside their coats and pass them around the table, as if the spiked punch wasn't enough. The sight is very "trashy high school prom", but you don't totally hate it. You only begin to wonder where all the staff members wandered off to, or if they're just choosing to turn a blind eye for one night.

Momo bumps her hand against yours and hands you a stale cookie, and you take it. It's a plain sugar cookie, dry and crumbly, with mini M&Ms baked into it. Overall, quite pleasant. You finish it off and glance around now that half the gym has had enough of the dance floor.

Somehow, all thoughts lead back to Nil and his whereabouts. You look around, but fail to spot him lingering by the bleachers or Dimitri. You get up on your tippy toes to hopefully see above a few students' heads, turning your head this way and that. You don't catch him, but he's short and therefore very easy to miss.

You finally return your attention to Momo right as the music shifts from Nickelback's hooting and hollering to some slow, romantic song for all the couples to slow-dance to. She mock-gags before raising her brows at you, flashing you a teasing smile. You laugh and shove her shoulder.

"Where'd Nil go?"

She hums, looking off to the side as if thinking for a moment, before tinting her head towards the doors leading out the gym.

"Out."

"Oh," you breathe, shoulders sagging a little. You may as well go check on him, offer him a ride if he plans on leaving. You hold up your hand, silently signaling you'll only be out for five, before crossing the gym and heading for the exit doors.

Outside, Nil leans against the old brick wall of the school, still as a statue. His eyes occasionally flicker from the bushes to the trees, and back down to the pavement, before eventually falling shut.

He'd just needed a moment away—away from the noise and commotion, yes, but especially from you.

Nil has been avoiding you. He's not stupid; he knows what he's doing, and he knows it's been upsetting you. Those "kicked dog" looks you flash him in the halls whenever he walks past without returning your greeting are hard to ignore. And, unfortunately for him, the notion only serves to worsen his Insomnia. He hasn't gotten any proper sleep in a good deal of time. Even in the woods, he's unable to get himself to quit tossing and turning and thinking so much.

It's not like Nil means to stress you out, but how else is he to rid himself of the onslaught of funny feelings your mere presence floods him with?

He huffs and kicks a small pebble near his foot, breathing out a quiet curse below his breath and fumbling with the uncomfortably tight collar of his shirt, going as far as to undo the top few buttons and pull the fabric far from his neck.

When you slip out through the back doors, sure enough, Nil is leaning against the nearest wall, brows furrowed and his jaw clenched as he glares at the concrete ground. He looks a little disheveled, though you struggle to recall a time he hasn't.

His head snaps in your direction when you step out, the sound of the door clicking open and your heels on pavement breaking the silence. You linger in the doorway for a moment, welcoming all of the nice air into the building.

"You bailed on us again," you remark with a subtle frown, narrowing your eyes at Nil. "It's prom, don't you wanna have fun?"

"Yeah, well, I can only take so much of you guys, so..." he trails off, eyes darting all over the place, yet somehow never landing on you. Your expression twists into a scowl.

"Does that apply to me, too?" you ask, a teasing lilt to your voice.

"Especially you," he responds. It's the kind of answer you'd expect to be full of snark and sarcasm, paired with a jesting tone, but his is oddly dull, serious. Your expression falls, and you roll your eyes, scoffing below your breath. It's nice to see he's hellbent on avoiding you, yet has no problem with dealing insults.

"You have the attitude of a taller man."

Nil doesn't laugh—hardly cracks a smile, really. He flashes you a puzzled look before shaking his head. You hum and casually shrug, finding your place beside him against the brick wall.

"Tough crowd."

Nil glares at you for a second before staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, his brows knitted together. It seems you're adamant about sticking around. That makes his stomach twist and his head feel light.

"I just came out for some air. You can go back in now, enjoy the party and stuff."

As if. Now is probably the only chance you'll have to talk to him without someone intruding or him finding a semi-valid excuse to leave.

You turn to him and hum. It's a soft, doubtful noise that escapes your throat and makes Nil shudder.

"It's fine. Think I needed some air, too."

Nil huffs and rolls his eyes.

"Great," he mumbles, full of sarcasm, clicking his tongue. Your frown deepens and your mind wanders because what could you have possibly done to make him react that way? You know he's a jerk and a huge sourpuss, but that response feels uncalled for.

A painfully tense, uncomfortable silence settles over you. Sometimes you contemplate opening your mouth to speak—maybe tell a bad joke or ask about his night—but you can easily picture the response you'll receive, or lack thereof, and promptly brush the thought aside. Still, the silence is deafening, and it's growing harder to ignore. You can hear Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash blaring from inside the building, and suddenly you wish you were inside with the others.

You still can't help but question what changed between you and Nil in the vast span of two weeks. He's so flippant and dismissive, possibly all because of you, it makes you roll your eyes and squint at the sky so that any tears threatening to fall can't ruin your makeup.

It's during this agonizingly awkward moment of silence that you feel compelled to think back on your first encounter. Not so much out of fondness or to simply reminisce—because it was a pretty rocky start— but rather to give yourself something else to think about and replace those brutal, nagging thoughts.

You were maybe 13 at the time, the age where you get into poorly written, "weird girl" movies written by totally creepy men and Lana Del Rey. The age when everything on the planet sucks and is grounds for dropping out of school and becoming a junkie.

You were sulking by some stream for probably the third time that week. You don't even remember why. Most likely, your algebra homework or the fact that it was three degrees warmer than you would've liked that day. And then you heard the quiet crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs. You internally panicked, fearing you'd be caught in such a compromising, embarrassing state, cupping cold water from the rushing brook in your hands and splashing your face a few times to wash away the tears and calm the redness.

The intruder? A teenage boy with dark, spiky hair, plenty of scratches, somewhat tan skin, narrowed eyes, and lips pulled into an unwavering frown. His hands clutched the straps of a heavy backpack that clung to his shoulders, chipped, black fingernails pressed against the coarse material. He seemed a little odd; maybe it was his style, or that scowl on his face, or possibly the first few words he spoke to you after a long pause.

"You shouldn't wash your face with that stream water. It's dirty, and a brain-eating parasite is gonna get in through your nose and crawl into your brain."

"What…what the hell?" You swiped at your dampened face.

He stared at you with a rather displeased but otherwise neutral expression for a moment before shrugging.

"It's true. I saw it on National Geographic once. The hell's the matter with you, anyway?"

He leaned down and swished his hands in the running water, which is when you noticed there was a considerable amount of dirt caked beneath his fingernails and between his skinny fingers. You wiped hastily at your face and crossed your arms atop your knees.

"It's whatever. I don't wanna talk about it."

He looked at you, furrowed his brows, and then rolled his eyes. He asked what your issue was, not why you were crying—a big difference anyone but you could pick up on, apparently.

"Whatever."

After a painfully long pause, you spoke up.

"I mean, if you really wanna know—"

"Fuck this."

He'd gotten up to leave, and you let him. You were hoping to get more alone time anyway.

Until you found him lingering in the candy aisle in Junkie's during school hours. Coincidentally, you were both skipping. You'd given him a friendly wave, but he scrunched up his nose and turned away.

You watched as he piled candy and trail mix into his arms, slipping a pack of gum into his pocket in the process, before bringing it up to the front.

What a fatass, you remember thinking, your eyebrows knitting together at the sight of the boy's poor diet. Still, you'd come to try an energy drink for the first time, not judge others. You tried not to side-eye him on your way out.

You caught him in the woods all by himself a few times after that, all purely by coincidence—it's not your fault you happened to live so close. He seemed to love sleeping anywhere but his own home, and you thought that "running away" once a week would convince your parents to buy you an Atari. At first, it was mere, fleeting glances that would occasionally linger when he was doing something especially odd or stupid, but soon evolved to attempting to strike up a conversation, only to be met with a glare. He accused you of stalking him on multiple occasions, but otherwise never did a decent job of shooing you away.

Not to be too harsh on your 13-year-old self, but you were certainly a bit of a prick, loudly complaining about your schoolwork and nagging parents around the boy long before ever properly learning his name. It was through a shared lack of friends and unruly emotions that you two managed to "bond" in a funny, somewhat pathetic way.

Nil still thought you were the absolute worst for constantly pestering him, but it truly wasn't so terrible sharing the brook with you so long as you picked up after yourself. You never once uttered a nasty word about him to his face nor behind his back—for who did you have available to tell—and frequently brought him band-aids and food—real food— because you were, oddly enough, worried about him. Mainly him being out and about in the woods all the time.

He'd scoff because why would somebody like him need that? All before inevitably caving and indulging in your offerings because "he'd hate to waste food" and "used all the instant ramen packets in his bag".

Even into high school, you never quite dropped the habit of subtly looking out for him.

After a long pause and plenty of hesitation, you inhale a shaky breath and speak up again.

"Did I...do something? Like...ever, at all?"

Nil's eyes shoot open, wide as saucers. He tries to avoid looking at you because, judging by your rather hurt tone, he can already picture your expression, and God, does it make him feel guilty. Self-sabotage has always been one of his weak points and, unfortunately, it's not something he can just punch in the face or run away from.

"No," Nil answers bluntly, a little too quickly. He cringes at his tone before attempting to regain his composure. "I mean—maybe. I don't know. It's not a big deal, though, so let's just drop it."

And never speak about it again, preferably. He wants to kick himself every time he deflects your attempts, but right now, it certainly feels like his only option. Maybe you'll get sick of him and leave, or take his half-assed excuses and pretend nothing ever happened to begin with. Instead, you breathe out a heavy sigh, flashing him an irritated look.

"Well, I mean—it's just that—" you stupidly stammer over your words, feeling totally dejected. It's almost like he has no clue just how frustrated he's made you within the past month, let alone in the moment. You clench your jaw, making all kinds of gestures with your hands to help convey your frustration.

"We don't really talk anymore. You don't talk to me. If I did something, you should just tell me."

"You didn't...do anything. I've just been stressed or whatever. That's all. I'll get over it."

You frown, wrinkling your brows and narrowing your eyes at him as if maybe you'll gain the ability to read Nil's mind.

"Y'know, you can talk to me about that, too."

"I know."

Oh, so he's just not gonna. That's cool.

You scoff in irritation. It's like speaking to a brick wall. A brick wall covered in nasty old chewing gum and graffiti. Like that one in Seattle. People actually like that wall, though.

"Fine, then," you huff out, trying not to feel too hurt. You're trying so insanely hard to get through to him, and he just won't budge. It's not like you should be very surprised—he's never really been one for talking out his feelings—but you don't believe you've ever been so irritated with someone before.

But you've also never liked a person this much before.

The night air nips at your exposed skin, and you stiffly cross your arms over your chest, impatiently shifting in place. You look back at Nil—he's staring at the ground.

"If there's someone you've been sneaking around with this whole time, you could've told me. I would've left you alone or whatever," you finally mumble.

He finally directs his rather offended gaze towards you, subconsciously mirroring your stance and crossing his arms above his chest defensively.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He's pretty sure he already knows what you're trying to insinuate—again, he's not stupid—but he'd rather hear it from you first.

Your eyes dart to him, and then back to your shoes, your lips still pulled into a thin line. "You been seeing anybody?"

Nil's face explodes into a hot, red mess, his eyes wide and brows furrowed. His mouth opens and closes, broken protests leaving his throat never to be finished.

"I—What the fuck?! No, God no. I don't know where you got that from. Quit making assumptions."

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh and shrug. "What? Not like I'd judge. Bet that's why you've been so busy lately."

You're hurt. And you're sure he knows it, but is choosing to ignore it like a jerk. You can't help but hide behind humor like some defense mechanism. Like if he sees you don't care just as much as him, he'll feel bad, or tell you the truth, or something.

You continue feigning a carefree, unbothered attitude, even when Nil runs a hand through his hair and glares at you from the corner of his eye, unable to hide his flushed face even when he tilts his head downward.

"Fuck," he breathes out, his tone laced with frustration. "I'm not seeing—or sneaking around with—anyone, alright? God. If I were to do all that stupid shit with someone, it'd probably be you, so quit jumping to conclusions."

Your brain stalls for a brief moment, eyes narrowing in thought.

"Then why do you keep avoiding me?" The response, hasty and exasperated, falls from your lips before you really have the chance to think it through. Nil grits his teeth and shifts uncomfortably in place, kicking at the ground and doing whatever he can to look at anything but your eyes.

"You just make me feel really fucking weird." That could have been worded better, but that's just how it came out. Nil purses his lips as his heart rate quickens.

You can't help but grimace at his reason for avoiding you. You make him "feel weird"? You've never heard a more lame excuse, and you have no clue what he could possibly mean by that. Still, you sincerely hope you didn't unknowingly do something to irk him in any way.

"What's that mean? Weird how? Like, bad weird?"

Nil rolls his eyes for the nth time at your slew of questions. He wishes he could take back everything he'd just said.

"It's nothing. I don't get why you're so bothered," he grumbles, giving you a funny look that suddenly makes you feel like the weird one with weird feelings and avoidant attachment issues.

You groan, dramatically dragging your hands down your face in exasperation, slumped against the cold wall.

"Dude, I'm bothered because we're friends! Friends don't ignore friends! You jerk, just tell me so I can go back inside 'cuz it's fucking cold out."

Nil pauses and blinks at your minor outburst, biting back the small smile his lips threaten to pull into, which only makes you scowl because it truly seems like he's not taking this seriously. He feels a little guilty for keeping you out here for so long, leading you on, and making you think you seriously offended him at some point in your friendship, leading him to almost entirely cut you off.

Now you're freezing out here instead of enjoying the dance or ripping bongs with Momo. He frowns and awkwardly averts his gaze.

"I don't know," Nil eventually murmurs. "Just weird. Like, it's not that bad, I don't really mind it, but it makes me wanna do really fucking strange stuff."

You give him a wide-eyed glare. "Say that again?"

"No," Nil is quick to respond, pulling away when you lean in. You bristle and fix your posture.

"No, really, tell me! I wanna know."

"Fuck off already."

"Dude, just spit it out!"

"Just strange stuff, okay?" he exclaims, equally as exasperated as you. "Stuff you don't do to friends. And I'm not telling you because it's gross and weird."

Finally, everything kind of clicks in your head. At least you have a better idea of why he's been so avoidant. Your heart rate slows a little—only to pick back up again shortly after—and your thoughts cease their racing out of relief. However, his admission does make your face grow far warmer. You discreetly shuffle closer, tilting your head to the side.

Nil shamefully tilts his head the other way, his brows knitted and body language tense and reserved. He almost draws in on himself, in a way, arms more so hugging his sides than crossing firmly over his chest. You sigh through your nose, cocking your head to the side so that you can get a glimpse of his expression. Stubbornly, he turns his head away. Your lips pull into a small, sanguine smile at his admittedly awkward behavior. You take a baby step closer to him, reaching out and grasping the fabric of his sleeve, giving it a gentle tug.

"Nil, look at me," you murmur, your voice soft and low. Nil winces when you speak, hesitating before reluctantly returning his gaze to you. Before you can say anything else, he beats you to it.

"I want to be with you."

As horribly cliché as it sounds, your heart skips a beat. Two. Oh no, one more and you're suddenly experiencing heart palpitations and rendered unable to respond.

Finally, you clear your throat and tilt your head, all aloof and unaffected.

"You're with me right now, aren't you?"

"No, stupid," Nil hisses. "Like, be with you."

You can't help the way your jaw falls at his curt confession—he's seldom been so direct with you about such vulnerable topics before—though you're quick to pick it up and shrug, puffing your chest out and crossing your arms, feigning indifference to the best of your abilities.

"Yeah, I'm not really that surprised. I kinda had a feeling."

Nil clenches his jaw at your casual, confident response, and it almost makes you laugh the way he kicks at the ground and mumbles "Whatever" below his breath.

"I mean, if you wanna be with me so bad, I'm down," you say, a playful lilt to your voice.

"Quit that."

You laugh and shuffle closer, leaning over and brushing some of his messy hair out of the way, lining your lips up with his ear.

"You know I want that too, yeah?"

Nil visibly shudders and takes a cautious step away, giving you another irked look and making a face as if you're the most gross thing he's seen all night. You only hum and shrug.

"We can do some of that totally strange stuff right now, if you're up for it." Your voice is steady and you look all composed, but your knees almost buckle at your own forward suggestion. You've never put on such a brazen display before.

"No! With you? That's disgusting. You're so gross," Nil is quick to exclaim, giving you a hostile look. He scowls and grits his teeth, but with that flush tainting his cheeks and the tips of his ears, it's not as threatening as it should be. He stammers over his words for a bit, sounding a little unsure of whether or not he wants to tell you off or not.

"You don't even know what I meant by that! I wasn't thinking."

"Oh, I know. You wanna, like, make out and stuff. You don't hafta lie."

He all but growls at your response, opening his mouth to protest, only to shut it seconds later. It's almost funny the way his inner turmoil is so obvious on the outside.

"Only if you want," you're sure to reiterate, keeping your voice as level as you can manage, which is pretty difficult when you're trying to imply you want to swap saliva with someone in a nonchalant manner.

Nil eventually goes quiet, shifting so that he's fully facing you, giving you a good view of his flushed face.

"I...ugh. Fine, whatever, but don't make it weird or anything."

Great. Surely you know what to do. You just didn't expect him to be so easy. You'll be sure to subtly slut-shame him later.

Slowly, hesitantly, your hands come up to his shoulders, gently pulling him closer. He stupidly stumbles over his own feet and hastily averts his gaze. Your thumbs stroke the material of his tuxedo before one of your hands snakes around the back of his neck, gently tangling your fingers in the short hair. Nil shivers, and his glare falters, momentarily softening. His hands slowly come up, hovering just above your waist, because where else should he put them? That's what they do in sappy scenes in movies. He only follows through when you snort and use your free hand to guide one of his. His grip instantly tightens as he attempts to ground himself, his hands rigid and unmoving where they lie.

For a moment, you just stare, narrowing your eyes and searching Nil's expression for a moment. When you lean in, and he doesn't back away, his gaze fixed on your lips, you take the initiative and slowly brush yours against his. Nil lets out a faint, strangled gasp, forcing himself to shut his eyes and mimic your movements, running a stiff hand along the curve of your waist.

It starts off as just a quick peck, soft, tentative, and fleeting, hardly a shy grazing of your lips. It's the kind of kiss you'd share with your first boyfriend under the bleachers before he breaks up with you a week later. But when you pull away first, his lips chase yours, his shaky hands coming up to grasp your upper arms, yet not quite pulling you in. Your eyes flutter open, greeted by his reddened face and dark eyes peering through his lashes, upturned brows, and lips slightly pouty, forming a rather desperate, wanting expression.

And so you do it again, finding your hands tangled in his already messy hair and tugging him a little closer. Close enough to deepen the kiss, at least. This one lasts much longer, and you're both shocked and impressed that Nil hasn't drawn away yet. In fact, he eagerly leans into it, his body tense and rigid but undeniably searching for more contact.

It's a little awkward and inexperienced, with your teeth occasionally grazing his and one of you pulling away for half a second, maybe for air or out of hesitation, only to go back for more. You doubt he's ever kissed anyone before—it's actually quite obvious—but, in typical Nil fashion, he's a fast learner, and eagerly kisses you back with twice as much fervor. It doesn't take long for him to get a little more comfortable, for his arms to tighten around your waist and lower back, drawing you closer.

Even when it's over and you've done plenty of awkward kissing for one night, you repeatedly press feather-light kisses against his lips until Nil finally grumbles and pushes you away, gentle and red in the face all the while. You cock your head and snort at his strangely soft, docile expression.

"You're pretty good at this," you hum, playfully leaning in and brushing your lips against his cheek. He clicks his tongue but doesn't nudge you off or lean away this time.

When he doesn't respond, you tug on his sleeve once more.

"We should do that again sometime, I liked it."

"Stop talking," Nil grits out. He turns his face away to conceal the way his cheeks and ears grow red at your likely satirical suggestion, but it does nothing to soothe his warm face. You laugh and release his sleeve, and he breathes out a heavy sigh. "Do whatever you want. Just don't be weird about it."

"I'm not weird about it, and I want you to want it, too," you proclaim, scoffing lightly in offense. "But fine then. Can we go somewhere else? I'm cold."

Of course he wants it. He's wanted it for months, played the scene over and over again in his head, tried to picture how you'd sound or how you'd feel long into the night, no matter how many times he's tried to brush those intrusive thoughts away. Those were the only times he didn't quite mind missing out on the sleep he'd lost.

Nil reluctantly forces himself to face you, expression softening as he slowly nods. "...Can we go to your house?"

"Sure, fine. Junkie's first?"

Nil cracks the tiniest, softest smile and nods once. "Okay."

i dont like this one very much its straight buns

Beabadoobee reference

it kind of turned out more mature?? now that i realize it so im praying no one sses this

lowkenuinly if were moots dont read this

Naturally, when you really like someone, you want to get into everything they're into, see through their eyes and live in their skin. Bond. You read in an old article in some antique shop that it makes people happy and is the key to a successful and prosperous relationship. That snippet of teasing advice, likely popularized in the 50's, dropped the tiniest scheming pebble in your brain, refusing to leave even after weeks.

So, that would explain why you waltzed down to your local, slightly pretentious music shop to pick up a bass.

You soon found out they are not very affordable.

Regardless, you left with a huge dent in your wallet and a fat guitar in a large fabric case, slung around your shoulder. You tried to walk confidently and casually, like Dimitri did when he brought his guitar on camping trips, but the strap kept sliding off your shoulder, and you had to hold a hand behind you on the bottom of the case to stabilize it the entire way home. You forgot about the added volume and frequently bumped it into streetlights and walls on your five-minute walk up the block to your car.

———

Clearly, your plate is very full. The bass sits heavy on your lap, unfamiliar and daunting, as an open book sits by your side, your hand furiously flipping through the pages with great haste. It's a bit vague, really, and the images provide little context for how your fingers should bend and where exactly you should put them. You've switched through five different guitar picks of varying thickness and material in hopes you'll find one that just feels right. Granted, you don't know quite how "right" is supposed to feel. You really just want to get good so that you can impress Momo, and you want to do it fast. Your hand pats around your tangled blankets until it lands on a familiar, blocky object.

—

"Hey, Momo. Are you free?"

Some background noise, a little chatter if you quiet your own breathing.

"Hmmm...I dunno, man. What for?... What did you do?"

How did she know.

You bite your lip and draw in a sharp breath. "Nothing! Just—I bought a guitar. Like, a bass, or whatever. You know, the thing you play. So we can match and stuff."

"...What?"

Silence.

Silence is never a good sign in a conversation. However, with Momo, it's hard to tell. For all you know, her shoulders could be silently shaking with laughter, or her brows could be furrowed in genuine confusion, so you clarify, "Like, yesterday. It's just been lying on my desk because I don't have a stand, and I'm scared it's gonna fall over. I don't know how to read the weird book the guy gave me and I kinda wanna give up. I spent too much money to drop it now." You purse your lips. "Also, I did bang it up a little on the way home, so they won't let me take it back...come over?"

A scoff of disbelief and the audible rustling of fabric. You hear something being zipped up and hair being combed. A good sign.

"Fuckin' idiot." A brief pause, and then a bark of laughter. "Sure thing. I'll be over in ten."

You beam, repeatedly voicing your gratitude before returning to the bass with a glare and a sense of dread. At least Momo will be here to lighten the load and teach you the basics. You toss the instructional book in the trash.

A series of hasty, sporadic knocks makes you jump and rush to the door, your brain connecting the loud, haphazard gesture to Momo in an instant. You undo a series of locks before swinging the front door wide open, your eyes immediately settling on Momo and her large bass guitar—no case or covering, just bare guitar held by the neck in her left hand.

"Heyy, you ready?" she greets casually, already stepping inside and looking around.

"Mhm! Thanks for coming.. My parents are home, so let's be quiet, okay?"

Disregarding your warning, Momo claps her hands together and marches down the hall with an arm draped over your shoulder. "Alright, let's do this!"

She eagerly bounds over to your bed, kicking off her shoes and jumping atop it as if it's her own. You let out a tired sigh, the corner of your mouth twitching up as she messes up your covers and stuffed animals. She gets situated on your bed, eagerly patting the spot beside her, bass in hand. She begins tuning it, plucking at the strings repeatedly and twisting the little knobs at the top until it sounds right. You saunter over, settling in by her side and watching with curious eyes as she expertly plays a few experimental chords.

You've followed her to her band practices before, lingering for a few extra minutes to watch her play, and you've certainly witnessed just how good she is, with her nimble fingers. Still, you can't help the way your jaw falls a little at the little tune she makes up on the way. Maybe it's something they've been practicing, or possibly a snippet she's making up on the spot.

You prop your own bass up on your lap, trying to mimic the way Momo has it set up. It looks more natural on her, you soon find out. You sit still, unwilling to move or adjust out of fear of breaking something. And, of course, Momo notices and laughs in your face about it, telling you to "take that stick out of your ass!"

You purse your lips with a deadpan expression, but the tension slowly eases from your shoulders. She's quick to finish preening and tuning, using her own as an example to name the different cords and explain the odd anatomy of the neck of the instrument. The silence is filled with her relentless yapping about the band and how she picked up the instrument, all while occasionally making fun of your poor decision-making skills. And then she shoves her guitar to the side and gives yours a quick look-over, plucking the strings and telling you to turn knobs a little to the right but not too far and now a little left and a little to the right and quit it before you mess it all up!

Slowly, hesitantly, you pluck one of the strings. Just as she did, if not softer. It snaps, a sharp, violent twang that leaves both of you in stunned silence for a brief moment before Momo bursts into loud, violent laughter. You clamp a hand on her mouth to quiet her down and she fucking licks it. You pull it away with a grimace.

"Oh, my God. Did I break it? Is it supposed to do that? Help me fix it!"

"HAHAA!! Idiot, it's fine! I just hope you have extras!" she shrieks through hyena-like laughter. You scoff and shake your head.

Momo wipes her eyes and gestures for you to hand it over. "I just knew you'd snap a string, that you'd manhandle it and break something." She sets it on her lap and leans down to dig through her bag, pulling out a visibly old pack of strings. Quietly, she makes quick work of the broken string. There's a lot of unscrewing and screwing, and you don't have any pliers, so she can't cut off the excess, but it looks pretty professional if you stand very far away. Within minutes, you're back to practicing and tweaking like you're stepping on eggshells.

You shoot Momo an unimpressed look as she shows you a chord to play, expecting you to mirror it. And, given how few strings there are, it shouldn't be too hard to do. If you were confident or stupid enough, you'd dare to call it easy. You almost feel hopeful—this should be much easier than you were expecting—except when you actually strum the strings, it sounds a little off, as if some impenetrable force is in its way, blocking the sound, making it dull and curt. You tilt your head every which way and try again and again and again, and yet it still sounds wrong. Not like Momo's, certainly. She gives your back a heavy-handed pat and messes up your hair.

"It's fine, man. Just try pressing a little harder. Move everything up a little. No, not like actually up, think up a theater stage. Yeah, like that. Now try."

You comply, and she claps her hands when it sounds a little better, and a relieved smile spreads across your face as your fingers adjust to the position you've put them in.

It goes on like that for a while—pluck cords, play notes, get better at switching between the two without stuttering or hesitating. You're by no means good, hardly decent, but you didn't have very high hopes to begin with. You only hope your pure grit and perseverance make you look cool. At some point, you abandon the guitar for a moment to rest your fingers—far less nimble and experienced than Momo's. You recall the way her calluses feel against your palm. It's nice. You soon resume your little lesson.

—

"No, dude. Oh my God. Just—put your finger there!"

Now Momo sits right behind you on her knees, looming over your shoulders and obnoxiously pointing here and there right in your face in a way that makes you huff and nudge them out of the way.

Remarkably, you manage to twist and bend your fingers along the fretboard, pressing down on the strings and giving them a gentle, experimental strum. The noise, low and brief, reverberates through the room as you blink at the instrument in pleasant shock. Your chest swells with the tiniest bit of pride as you crane your neck to look at Momo, flashing her a smile.

"That was pretty good, right? My fingers kinda hurt," you remark with a smile, giving the guitar another quick strum and grinning when, once again, the sound it emits doesn't totally assault your ears.

Momo sighs in frustration, snorts, and then gives your shoulder a gentle shove. "Not terrible. I'm surprised you actually learned something!"

You'll choose to ignore that.

"Good job, really," Momo muses, casually draping her arms around your shoulders and looming over you to watch. Without warning, she yanks you back by the shoulders, swoops in, and presses an obnoxious, sloppy kiss against your lips, pulling back before you can even think about reciprocating. It's intentional, and you know it. "Now do it again."

You blink at nothing and sputter for a bit before tucking your head down and focusing your attention on manipulating your aching fingers to play another chord rather than your warm face. Momo's arms stay wrapped firmly around your shoulders, her eyes a neon haze as they scrutinize your every attempt to strike a chord. And, judging by her occasional, content hums, you must be doing well. You hope you are. Every now and then, she snorts and giggles at your slip-ups and hesitation—to her, it must be like watching a puppy chase its own tail. You struggle to keep your back somewhat straight as Momo rests her entire weight on you.

You sigh and nudge your head back, bumping her forehead slightly to catch her attention. Your fingers slip from the fretboard, aching a little at the tips. "Hey, teach me another?"

Lazily, she hums and shifts a little, her hands coming down to puppeteer your own, moving your hand here and your fingers there. You watch as she wordlessly contorts your hand to form another chord. You aren't learning much, but you can't say you don't enjoy it. With all the contact and lingering kisses, you're being Pavlov-dogged into learning quickly.

Momo retracts her hands and lets them dangle lazily over your shoulders as you experimentally strum the instrument, blinking when it sounds. You must not be pressing down hard enough. You adjust your trembling fingers and try again. She begins peppering kisses against your hair, slow and gentle, nearing your neck. You stiffen and throw a stern glare over your shoulder, halting your movements.

"Hey, chill out, I'm trying to focus," you half-heartedly demand, feigning your frustration as you try to give the instrument your full attention, which is difficult when Momo only hums and continues her overly affectionate ministrations. She must have taken something before she headed over.

Momo shrugs, innocent and oblivious, her lips brushing against your temple. "What? I showed you what to do. Just...strum."

You roll your eyes. "You know what I mean." Despite your chiding tone, your lips pull into a reluctant smile, the apples of your cheeks growing hot. "It's distracting. At least save it for later."

"Or," Momo loops her arms around your shoulders, pulling you against her. "You can save this for later."

With great reluctance—so much so your chest aches a little with regret—you shrug her off, sighing and raising your guitar a little.

"Just teach me another," you demand, although your heart isn't really in it. You were serious about getting into something she's interested in. You're also serious about not flushing $200 down the drain.

Maybe you should've started with something small, like drugs or vandalism.

Momo whines and slaps your shoulder as you begrudgingly nudge her away, clearly steadfast in learning something. She knows the instrument is kind of a big commitment, and she definitely thinks you're a little stupid for going through with such a half-baked decision, but you're so determined and desperate to learn, she can't say no.

So, Momo shimmies down to sit by your side, grabbing her previously forgotten instrument and lining her fingers somewhere along the fretboard, contorting them in a way that should be painful, but isn't, thanks to her blessed long fingers and calluses. You do your best to mimic her movements, slow and hesitant, as if you're scared you're gonna snap a string just by grazing them. Momo notices your reluctance and lets out a huff of laughter, rolling her eyes as she shifts a little closer to ease your fingers into the proper alignment and strings. It doesn't hurt all that much—there are only four strings—but your fingers do grow tired quick. Still, you strum, and it sounds right, pretty similar to Momo's. You glance down and notice she doesn't use a pick. You do.

"Hey, nice," she coos, nodding slowly in affirmation as you slowly switch between the few chords she taught you, your movements slow and a little uncoordinated. Still, she watches intently, as if you're the teacher, a content, almost proud grin playing on her lips. Considering you bought the instrument just a few days ago, and your oddly sweet intentions, you're making considerable progress. Next, she's gonna figure out how to recruit you into the band. Her chin rests on your shoulder, unbothered by your frequent shifting and changing of positions.

Momo takes advantage of the lack of distance and, unsurprisingly, gives your lips an eager peck, repeatedly pressing light kisses to them until you give in and set the guitar down and reciprocate. You pull away after a few short seconds, the gesture fleeting and chaste, ready to get back to learning the basics—or at least trying to—but Momo gently takes hold of your jaw and slowly guides your face until you're properly looking at her, her brows upturned at the ends and eyes narrowed. Oddly longing.

"Hold on," she rasps out, hand trailing from your jaw to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair.

A breathy laugh escapes your throat as your face is guided right back to hers to continue where you left off.

Gentle, tentative, slow soon turns to rushed, sloppy, and fervent. Possibly a little too heated for your liking. Your parents are home and you can't risk getting caught in such a compromising position. You could say you were counting each other's eyelashes, but you're not too sure how well that would go over with them. Reluctantly, your hands loosen their grip on Momo's hoodie and you slowly pull away, letting out a shaky breath that fans across her lips. She looks a little disappointed, you realize, once you pull away. You let out a lighthearted laugh and nudge her shoulder once.

"I think you forgot what you came here to do."

Momo rolls her eyes with a carefree smile, nudging you back harder. "I didn't forget. I'm a pretty good multitasker. I can do lots of things at once, y'know." She quirks her brows at you.

"Funny." You hold the bass up. You rack your brain, struggling to remember just which chords are which. You press your fingers against the fretboard and present it to Momo. "So, this is A...?" You pause, hesitantly contorting your fingers once more. "And this is C?"

Momo blinks at your hand. "Yeah, probably."

"What do you mean, probably? Haven't you had this thing since middle school?"

She laughs in your face and tussles your hair. "I think you've done enough for today. You did well, really! I bet you'll be as good as me, like, super fast."

You hum, giving your tired hand a well-deserved massage. Momo shimmies back on your bed, taking one of your blankets and throwing it over your shoulders in a semi-comforting manner. Once again, her arms find themselves wrapped around your shoulders in a grip that's maybe a little too tight, pulling you back.

Your back falls against her chest in a slow, awkward motion. You're dragged back so that you're lying back on Momo's chest, legs dangling limp over the edge of your bed. You set your guitar down gently to avoid flat-out dropping it on the floor. With a huff, you try to glare at Momo through your lashes, tilting your head back and furrowing your brows. "So, we're done for today? Did you just wanna make out? You could've said so, you know."

Your accusing tone pulls loud laughter from Momo as she shuffles back a little more on your bed, pulling you along with her. From a closer angle, it's much easier to pinpoint the reddened sclera of her eyes and the strong musk of marijuana, confirming your drug-related suspicions.

"To be honest, I never really intended to spend all afternoon teaching you a couple of beginner chords. It's astounding that it took you that long."

You roll your eyes, but can't say you're surprised. "No duh. I can smell it on you. Anyways, I think I made good progress today."

Momo giggles at that, crude and boisterous, with a carefree shrug and a cheeky grin. She gazes back at you, bright, hazy eyes filled with a foreign amount of adoration. You can't fight off the smile that pulls at your lips. She pokes your cheek once and makes herself at home on your bed, fluffing up your pillows and grabbing at your stuffed animals. She reaches over with a grunt and turns off the lamp on your bedside table, resuming her previous position shortly after and draping her arms around your shoulders.

"Hey. did you know that Dana flushed her vape down the school's toilet and that's why it got all clogged up? It was actually all her fault, but she lied and said Nil took a massive dump and clogged the toilet 'cos she didn't wanna get caught. Which doesn't make any sense since she'd be using the ladies' room and Nil wouldn't. Isn't that stupid?"

You choke on nothing and sputter like an idiot. "What? What? When was this? How did you know?"

"I know everything."

"Huh. Did anyone believe her?"

"Pshh...yeah."

"Oh."

You feel Momo shrug from behind you, giggling at your bewilderment. She gets snug as a bug in a rug in your bed before dropping a bomb on you.

"Okay, well, I'm staying the night. Goodnight!" She punctuates her statement with a kiss on the crown of your head. Before you can protest, she's fast asleep and suddenly heavy as a boulder, unresponsive to your shaking and complaining. Begrudgingly, you settle back against her, head on her shoulder, conveniently allowing her short hair to tickle the side of your face. Oddly enough, you don't mind.

LOL idk if this would need a warning but lots and lots of acohol and smoking and like implied underage drinking but idk thats up to you tbh idrk how old he is technically

I did quit working on it halfway bc i got bored and finished it all on a whim

I like hate elaborating on feelings and relationsihps before like "the confession" or whatever so tbh thats up to you to decide too congrats!!!

After weeks of relentless testing, studying, and grinding, Dimitri felt worn out and, frankly, like an animal experiencing extreme Zoochosis, repeating the same few tasks each day and occasionally indulging in a drink or a smoke to alleviate the stress.

Needless to say, he craved a break. A small one. Just one day far away from his books and pens and that little study desk with that bright, cold lamp.

He does it without thinking, driving to your house in the late afternoon, the truck bed already packed with blankets and grocery bags of recently purchased snacks.

Dimitri shows up at your door, unannounced, donning a basic, large tee, flannel long-sleeve, and distressed jeans, as well as the darkest eye bags you've probably ever seen him with.

"Let's go do something," is all he greets you with. It's vague yet promising, in a way. For all you know, he could intend on driving two towns over just to go thrifting at some better shops, or taking you on a simple hiking trip in the woods.

Regardless, you agree to come along with little hesitation.

Dimitri lights a small blunt before casually downing the last of a cheap store-brand beer, the can dampened from the condensation. It's been a while since he's allowed himself to feel so carefree, having dedicated countless hours to schoolwork, applications, and work rather than fishing trips and hangouts. Intoxicants, nature, and his friends are some of his favorite things, after all, and he's missed them greatly. From the corner of his eye, he seeks out your slumped form, taking long, lazy drags from a cigarette you bummed off him. It's not like he's playing favorites, but it's just you two tonight. Once he wrapped up the last of the essays and assignments he'd already been days behind on, you were the first person on his mind. He knew that all he really craved was a smoke and a simple night out, just the two of you. He'd have to hit up Nil later.

So, he haphazardly planned out a night to go camp out in his truck in the middle of the woods, somewhere outside of town, with minimal light pollution. He packed way too many risky substances and lots of blankets so that you guys could get wasted and stargaze in comfort, with little care for how either of you would be getting home the following morning with hangovers.

You set your picky taste aside and settled on a spot technically on some campground's property, where a few trees were cleared out to allow for a tent and a family. Instead, Dimitri's dingy truck sits parked in the middle.

He thoughtfully packed a small cooler of various drinks—beer, hard seltzers, sodas, and Capri Suns. He also brought a little baggie with him in case either of you felt like hotboxing his truck at any point in the night. Just in case.

You'd left at around dusk. Now, the moon hangs full and bright in the night sky, accompanied by a variety of dazzling stars littered about. Dimitri leans back against the very front of the truck bed, freakishly long legs outstretched and taking up an abnormal amount of space. He's smoking a joint, unsurprisingly, and gazing into the distance with heavy-lidded eyes and a faint, contented smile. You sit against the side of the bed, your legs on top of his, and a thick blanket on your lap. You've already hastily and very stupidly downed two beers, a little too excited by the newfound freedom that comes with camping out in the middle of the woods with no authority or parents around. Now you're on your third. You should've settled on Capri Suns first, and you'll likely be feeling it ten times worse later, but right now you're most focused on enjoying yourself and less so on your liver.

Eventually, your eyes trail over to Dimitri. Normally, he's not very talkative when under the influence, preferring to sit back and spectate the conversation. But every now and then, he pulls the blunt or bottle from his lips and blurts out whatever's on his mind, whether it's something worth sharing or not.

"You should, like, totally let me paint you sometime. I'd be soo good, trust. I'd even learn color theory n' shit." You don't think you've ever seen him paint past the age of six.

"I like it when you do your hair like that. Did you do your hair? It looks like you did your hair. You use, like, socks or something?" You have not done anything to your hair. Nice to know he likes it.

"Looking at you kind of makes me nauseous. But like—not in a bad way. Well, I mean, the nausea is pretty bad, but the looking at you part isn't. Do you get it?" You outwardly laugh at him for that.

You chalk his mindless rambling up to being a little too high to function properly—a bunch of sweet nothings caused by the alcohol rush. He shrugs his flannel off and tosses it to the side despite the nipping cold night air. Even in the dark, you can see his freckled cheeks and half-lidded eyes, both reddened from the intoxicants.

"I'm glad you came out tonight," Dimitri mumbles after a particularly long period of silence and smoking. "It feels like you always leave the party too early, y'know? Like—you never really stick around very long, I gotta fight for some alone time with you, haha." You raise a puzzled brow, tilting your head and silently pressing for elaboration. It never comes.

"But I know you have a lotta stuff going on. You're busy. Probably too busy for trashy house parties and basement concerts," Dimitri snorts, his lead tilting to look at you a little better. "I guess I'm pretty lucky you're spending your Friday night with me this time, huh?"

You bark out a little laughter, shuffling a little closer. "Huh? Oh, I guess I never noticed. I think I'm very...involved. I come to your guys' concerts, at least." You clear your throat and hastily gulp down the remaining contents of your drink, turning to Dimitri and giving him a feigned accusatory look. "What, you think I'm avoiding you guys?"

Dimitri chuckles and shakes his head a little, pausing to take a quick hit and exhaling it with his head turned away from you. "Pfft. Nah, not that. You're just too nonchalant. I'm a little flattered you agreed to hang out, is all." He shrugs, the plume of smoke above his head dispersing into the night air within seconds. You can't help the way your entire face softens, your brows crinkling a little.

"Come on," you begin, crawling over to the small cooler and pulling out another can, hardly sparing the label a glance. "I can't possibly be that out of reach—I live right down the street. But if you think I'm soo cool, I guess it's gotta be true." You flash him a cheeky smile, popping the tab of the can open and immediately taking a sip, briefly ceasing your relentless yapping. Judging by the citrusy taste of grapefruit and pineapple, it's a hard seltzer.

Again, Dimitri laughs, shifting his body to face yours. His eyes flicker down to the damp can in your hand, and his carefree smile falters for just a second. "Another? Really? Have you ever even had alcohol before this? I don't recall seeing you drink, like, ever."

Your gaze follows his, and you wave him off carelessly. "Well, I dunno, but I feel fine. Honestly! I think I might be better at handling my alcohol than you, actually."

"Is that a challenge or something?"

"If you're dumb enough to think it is, yeah." You laugh, and he hums, cocking a brow.

He's pretty focused on his drink for the next few minutes, occasionally taking a toke and exhaling it slowly, the scent of marijuana and cheap booze clinging to his clothing and hair. You can smell it from where you sit, just a few feet away—beer and weed mingling with Axe body spray and what you assume is coconut shampoo. You can't say you hate it. It's very him. You can imagine you smell like cigarette smoke, alcohol, and Pantene all bundled into one.

"Hm. Hey, what do I smell like?" you mumble absentmindedly, words slurring together just slightly when you speak. Possible warning signs, but you pay them little mind.

Dimitri whips his head around to face you, his hand extended into the cooler, pulling out yet another can. "What?" His own speech comes out a little slurred, his tone laced with genuine confusion.

"Like...do I smell like smoke, or beer, or what?"

He shrugs, cracking open the can. "Uh...I dunno."

"Dude, just get over here."

Dimitri blinks at you for a beat, his brain struggling to catch up. He finally lets out a little "Oh" and shrugs, hastily takes a few gulps of his drink before awkwardly fumbling over piles of blankets and pillows. He settles by your side and, much to your surprise, promptly buries his face against the side of your neck. Not quite what you had in mind, but it works. You wince at the sudden contact, tilting your head to glare at him with wide eyes despite knowing there's no way he can see you. Your only gripe is the way his hair invades your face and tickles all over. You try to discreetly blow it away. One of his hands finds your shoulder, clumsily wandering up your arm before steadying you in place.

After a few very long seconds, Dimitri hums against the crook of your neck, unmoving. "Yeah, smoke, beer, shampoo, conditioner, and that cheap body spray you get from Walmart."

"Oh, you mean the strawberry cheesecake one?"

"Is that what that is? Smells way too sweet." He finally pulls back, but just enough to flash you a teasing smile. You push his shoulder hard and roll your eyes.

"But it's only five dollars..."

"Cheap normally doesn't equal good. Sorry, babe," he retorts with a shrug, settling in by your side. His hand falls by his lap and gently tugs at the blanket splayed across your legs, pulling it up a little. "But it's okay. I kinda like it."

You glance down at his hand, finally free of those fingerless gloves he loves so much, and bite back the smile that threatens to spread across your face. It's a tiny gesture, really, but considerate nonetheless. You focus on finishing off your fourth or fifth—you've lost count, oops—drink, setting it down with a faint 'tink'.

"You're saying you like the way I smell?"

Dimitri shrugs casually and shuts his eyes for a moment, leaning against you, smoke and beer and men's cologne invading your senses. "Mm, yeah, guess so. It's familiar, so I like it."

"You a dog or something?"

A lazy chuckle. "For you, sure."

"Alright, man." You hum and nod, flashing him a funny look.

Slowly, your heavy head falls back against nothing, eyes scanning the sky. You did come all the way out here to admire the stars in the clear sky. You shift a little in place so that the side of your body rests against the side of the truck bed. The moon shines a pale yellow, not quite yet a full moon, surrounded by tiny stars. Crickets chirp, and bushes and tree branches rustle with the faint night breeze. You should spend more summer nights in the woods.

Despite the pleasant scenery surrounding you, your eyes are heavy-lidded and hazy, repeatedly glancing down to the forest floor below, seemingly so far down and daunting despite only being a few feet from your spot on the truck bed. Your stomach churns and lurches in discomfort. You've severely overestimated your alcohol tolerance, and now you're paying for it, just as you'd anticipated. You could have done without those last three drinks. The nauseating feeling of saliva pooling on your tongue causes chills to overtake your body and, before you know it, you're obnoxiously vomiting over the side of the truck, clenching the edge like a lifeline and disrupting the pleasant silence. It really does feel like God has decided it's your time and is trying to pluck you off the face of Earth. You've never felt so anxious and sick and overwhelmed all at once. You're too young to die, and you'll be damned if it's due to underage drinking, but it really does feel like death in the moment.

Dimitri curses below his breath once you keel over the side of the car, unfortunately bearing witness to your embarrassing display. He'd told you not to drink too much earlier, as well. He pats your back and holds any loose hair away from your face, preventing it from mingling with your bile. Quietly, he's fretting at your side, partially over the well-being of his truck, but mostly over you.

Slowly but surely, you finish upchucking everything you've consumed within the past five hours—Takis, Capri Sun, Red Bull, a Sauce and Toss 6-piece from Dairy Queen—and groan, trying to sit up properly. You blink through bleary vision and glance down. Good, most of it landed on the ground, not on the side of Dimitri's truck. Immediately, your cheeks flush from embarrassment, rather than the buzz from the alcohol.

"Whoa, okay, holy shit. You're okay, you're okay. Um." Dimitri whips his head around, still rubbing your back a little, before hastily reaching for the flannel shirt he'd previously shed and forgotten about. He dusts it off with a quick swipe and nudges the corner of your mouth with the sleeve, his movements hasty and a little uncoordinated. Clearly, he's in no better condition than you. You hesitantly take the shirt and wipe off your lower face, setting it elsewhere shortly after.

You groan, wiping at your teary eyes a few times. "Ugh, I'm sorry, dude. I'll, like, clean your truck and shirt in the morning once we get back. God, that's gross..."

Dimitri shakes his head, clicking his tongue at your offer. "I really don't care. I'm probably not far behind you," he says with a shrug, his words mixed with laughter. His hand runs slowly down the curve of your spine as if mapping it out, his expression growing a little stern. You huff, readying yourself for a lecture.

"I care more about how much you've had tonight. Maybe lay off for a bit, yeah? I can get you a Capri Sun or a Gatorade if you'd like. Maybe we can go drive around until we find a place to get some real food..." His hand feels around the mess of blankets before he grasps a plastic water bottle, about half empty. It's his, but he'll lend it to you anyway. He unscrews the cap and sets it down before you, his hand soon returning to your back.

You grunt, slumped against the side of the truck bed, still a little queasy but miles better than before. Thank god for Dimitri and the fast actor he is, ready to hand you a "towel" and a water bottle. His water bottle, actually, but you don't mind all that much. You've shared food, drinks, and cigarettes plenty of times before. You reach for the bottle and bring it to your lips, pausing to take a quick breath before taking a small sip. The cool liquid runs down your throat, doing a poor job of soothing the slight acidic taste of bile that lingers, but it's better than nothing. Your eyes briefly fall shut as you let out a contented sigh. You've decided you're never drinking again. You try not to finish off all of his water in one go, but unfortunately, that's just what your body needs right now. The empty bottle is soon discarded elsewhere and forgotten.

You exhale a shaky breath, flashing him a thankful smile. "Thanks. I needed that...so bad."

Dimitri chuckles and finally withdraws his hand, propping his elbow up against the side of the truck bed. "Just glad you're not barfing all over my truck again," he teases. You'd sock him in the arm, but you don't really have it in you right now.

Dimitri remains by your side, visibly relieved that you're listening to him and not going back to downing can after can. He lifts the small blunt to his lips for a final hit before haphazardly smushing it against the floor of the truck bed a few times.

You slide back against the side of the truck bed, occasional waves of nausea hitting you like a truck. You're definitely feeling a little better, but nothing can undo the amount you drank. Slowly, you drag the blanket on your lap all the way up to your shoulders in an attempt to shield yourself from the breeze. Alcohol warms you up, sure, but you've still got the chills, and you'd rather not catch a cold on top of being hungover. Dimitri exhales heavily, propping an arm up behind him on the edge of the truck bed, tilting his head back to gaze at the sky for a bit, and for a moment, you think he might just throw up, too. But instead, his eyes slowly fall shut, and his head lolls over until it gently rests atop your own. You glance at him, close your own eyes, and lean your head against his shoulder.

For a moment, you sit like that, leaning against each other, minds fuzzy and faces hot. Despite probably having hit his limit, Dimitri continues to sip from a lukewarm can of beer without a care in the world. You furrow your brows and urge him to dump it before he actually hurls, but he waves you off with a carefree laugh, his body slumped against yours.

"Just don't throw up on me. Do it in the woods if you gotta."

"Aw, come on. You wouldn't mind, would you?" Dimitri teases, pressing the side of his face against your hair and intentionally getting all up in your space because he knows it gets on your nerves, all in an attempt to irritate you. And it works. You shove him away and roll your eyes, propping your elbow up on the edge of the bed to serve as some kind of barrier, which only makes Dimitri laugh at you harder.

In the midst of the laughter and alcoholic buzz, his gut twists a little with something akin to dread when he spares you a glance, eyes glassy and a little unfocused, and remembers just how much he likes everything about you—how scarily perfect you look even after retching all over the side of his truck in the dead of night. You're visibly disheveled, strands of hair sticking to your flushed face and your forehead and cheekbones dampened from sweat. He crinkles his brows and fails to fight off the smile spreading across his face.

"I know I shouldn't say this," Dimitri starts, his voice a quiet mumble. "But I've been in love with you for, like, forever." He says it almost absentmindedly, as if he hasn't a care in the world or the faintest idea of what he's just confessed to.

You whip your head up to face him, all wide-eyed and flushed in the face. Dimitri blinks at you slowly, his eyes heavy-lidded and mouth curled into that small, casual smile, and that's when you remember that he's just smoked an entire joint and had about three or four beers. He probably doesn't have the faintest clue what he's just said, and he most certainly won't remember it by the following morning. You let out a scoff mixed with a jesting laugh and silently chide yourself for feeling an ounce of excitement for a moment. The hurt that follows the initial hope dulls your tone a little, but you do a decent job of brushing it off.

"You're drunk. You don't mean that," you state assuredly, flashing him an unconvinced smile. Despite his drunken state, Dimitri's hand steadily trails up your arm, holding you with a solid, gentle grasp.

You're not entirely wrong—he really is drunk, and it's thanks to the intoxicants that he's suddenly dumping everything on you, but he means what he says. He just needs to prove it to you. Duh.

As skeptical as you are, you don't move away and allow him to hold you in place with that ever-gentle hold. Naturally, you lean into it, welcoming it with reluctance. You straighten up a little, gazing at him with that expectant look, like you're not taking him seriously—though it's not like Dimitri can blame you—and he hesitates for a moment, yanking his hand away before settling right back on your shoulder as if he doesn't know where to put it. You snort a little, shoulders shaking. The blanket slips and falls a little, and Dimitri drapes it back around your shoulders.

Your expression softens at the innocent gesture. He insists, voice soft and more meek than you've ever heard it. More desperate.

Again, your heart rate spikes, refusing to mellow. You want to believe it, of course you want to, but you know better, so you sigh and shake your head. "I think we should get some rest now." You cast your gaze to the messy pile of blankets and pillows, haphazardly strewn about. Some probably have spilled beer on them. You give Dimitri's forearm a soft, reassuring squeeze and flash him an apologetic smile before shuffling over to the pile and distracting yourself with a particularly squishy, flat pillow.

Dimitri reaches out and tugs you back by the wrist, looking up at you with a pitifully desperate expression. "No, stay—please. I-I mean it, I really do." He pauses, swallows thickly, his eyes darting around before settling on you once again, pools of maroon laced with longing. "I know you probably think I'm a huge stoner with minor commitment issues, but I'd treat you so good, I promise. I want to."

When his brows knit together a little, and his glassy eyes blink at you, his gaze unwavering, you ease up a little, directing your full attention to him and leaving the pillow alone. Dimitri lets out a quiet breath, as if he's been holding it, waiting for you to look at him, and a faint chuckle leaves your dry throat.

"I'm not just drunk," he insists again, sounding so sure of himself it almost fully sways you. "I mean it. Please," his voice lowers to a whisper. A pleading, wanting whisper. His hands tighten their hold on your shoulders, a good portion of his weight resting entirely on you. And despite how dangerously close he's getting, you don't really mind. If anything, you want to draw him closer. Dimitri's hands trail up your neck and stop to cradle either side of your face, thumbs running over your cheekbones with tender care. You sigh, lean into it, and eventually nod.

"You better not be fucking with me."

"Never. Not now, at least."

You hum, content with his response. "I know. I want you too. Of course I do. But you just drank your body weight in beer and Capri Sun. I just think we should save this for tomorrow. Neither of us is really in the right state of mind. Tell me again when you feel normal...or as close to normal as possible."

Dimitri's hands wander, tangling in your hair as his expression shifts. A little less dejected now, but he's still visibly adamant. And oddly stubborn. He rests his head against your shoulder, his face immediately finding the crook of your neck. "It's hard to feel normal around you."

"That's not what I mean."

"Was that a yes?"

You open your mouth to speak before shutting it. It is, but you can only imagine what will change once the effects of the alcohol and weed wear off. Still, you nod, maybe a bit too quickly. You can't help it. You can feel the heavy breath of relief Dimitri lets out, tickling the side of your neck and making you squirm and try to shrug him off. Instead, his arms snake around your waist, tugging you close. You have little time to register what he's doing until he rests the entirety of his weight on you, slowly bearing down on you like a hydraulic press.

"Okay, you can get off me now. Ugh." You slowly lean back, supporting yourself with your elbows. Dimitri nudges his face against your neck and even dares to press his lips against your skin and laugh carelessly. You groan and flop onto your back, Dimitri lying on top of you like an extra-heavy weighted blanket, unwilling to move.

"I wanna hear you say it," he mumbles against your skin after a moment, words breathy and a little slurred. It tickles, and you crane your neck a little in response, groaning in complaint.

"Say what?"

"Say that you like—love me too."

You huff. "Didn't I already do that?"

Dimitri pauses, lets out a quiet "Oh" below his breath. "Then I just wanna hear you say it again."

Unfortunately, you have yet to be accustomed to casually throwing around the 'L-word', but you suppose these aren't very casual conditions. He's on top of you, all up in your business, and you aren't even complaining, for God's sake. You find it's a lot easier to say when you don't have to force it out.

"Okay, then. I love you too, Dee."

He hums contentedly, nodding against your neck and briefly lifting his face to trail a couple of messy, innocent kisses along your jaw, pulling quiet laughter from you. Dimitri's arms tighten around your midsection, fingers curled around the fabric of your shirt with an impressive grip. You shift a little, finding a somewhat comfortable position on the mess of blankets and pillows, before gingerly weaving your fingers through his hair, dead from the countless dye jobs, and succumbing to a nasty headache and much-needed sleep.

holy shit bro go away

i want everyone to go to taco bell rigth now and get those cheesey steak dippers with extra steak and creamy chipotle sauce on the side with a baja blast and come back later to thank me ok

whatever anyway this was kind of sent a long time ago and ive been procrastinating a lott like so much cuz tmi but this saturday our cat died!!! ive literally never lost a pet b4 and idk how to like cope cuz he technically wasnt even actually OUR cat (more a stray that we like took care of?) but still like that was literally MY cat bro he had a little house and toys and litter box and everything so ive been so very down in the dumps and obvi this isn't the place to vent about it and for the sake of this post i wont anymore butt also idc rip Rambo he was the friendliest sweetest cat ever