my twst writing blog

Another wave of nausea washes over you—and out of you.  Kalim pats uselessly at your back; you appreciate the sentiment regardless.

“A ‘little’ of what?  Isopropyl?” you cough.  You should’ve asked this before drinking it, but hindsight is 20/20. And the desire for inebriation is blinding.

“Uh, I’m not sure!  I just grabbed a bottle.  Everything we have is good, though!”

You scoff and instantly regret it as it burns behind your nose.  “Yeah, I got that impression.”

“Are you feeling okay now?”

“Well, I think it’s all out of my system,” you chuckle weakly.  “I think.  Don’t wanna risk it.”

Draped disgustingly over the toilet, you watch Kalim leave your side and scramble aimlessly around the bathroom for a minute.  He’s somehow more directionless than you right now, and you’re hammered.

“I’ll go get Jamil!” he announces abruptly, decisively, and then sprints off.

You wonder if you should get up and rinse your mouth out, but the microscopic voice of reason at the back of your mind says not to get up without supervision.

You’ll just have to wait for Jamil, then.  Damn.

Even with your eyes shut, you know exactly when the vice-housewarden arrives by the bone-shaking sigh he releases the moment he sees you.

“Kalim…  What have you done…”

“Hey, it's my fault too!” you murmur blindly with a thumbs up, tone inappropriately chipper.

Kalim himself stands in the doorway, looking anxious as ever.  “No, don't say that, Prefect!  You didn't know!”

“It’s both your faults,” Jamil groans.  He nudges a cup of water against your knuckle.  “Here.  Rinse your mouth.”

“Is the Prefect gonna be okay?” Jamil’s other ward stage-whispers while you swish water.

“Yes.  Go back to the party,” the vice-housewarden sighs again, and you spit into the toilet.

“Really?  Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’ll handle them.  Go entertain your guests.”  You feel Jamil’s tension instantly dissipate with the housewarden’s absence, but now what’s left of it is focussed on you.  “Drink.”

So you do.  Between sips, “Mmmm, water tastes really good right now~”

Arms crossed, he leans against the wall.  Judging.  “…How much did you drink?”

You don’t reply, too focussed on tasting your delicious water.  Oooh, quenchy.

“You didn’t check what Kalim gave you?” he tries again.

Tip the glass fully back and slurp down the remaining drops; you place it on the floor; you’re running out of distractions.

“Are you that irrespons—”

“Shut,” you snap.  “Wanted to get drunk tonight.  Got there.  We good.”

The heavy sigh you expect to hear doesn’t come.  All there is is the soft tumbling of a washing machine and distant laughter from the party.

Silently, Jamil picks up the empty cup.  “More water?”

“Mmm.”

Attentively, he refills it and hands it back to you.  “Thank you,” you blabber.

Even drunk, you’re all too aware of the intensity of his gaze on you.  So you stare back.  “You’re too pretty to be such an ass,” you say.

Caught between the compliment and the insult, Jamil scowls.  “Bold words from a drunkard who needs me to look after them.  I don’t have to do this charity.”

“I know, that’s what sucks.  I want to hate you.”

He scoffs, “Be my guest.  You’d be one of many.”

And that’s the issue, isn’t it?  You can’t.

You’d been charmed the moment you met him, and things only got worse as you spent more time together.  He was sweet and attentive and kind to you, and he gave you hope.  You’d spent late nights together, shared sweet nothings, relished the little meals he’d prepare for you despite having his hands full.

But apparently, it was all a façade.  He doesn’t like you, never has; you mean nothing to him, really.  You’d just been a pawn in his ballsy little scheme.

That realisation has you nauseous all over again.

 “I can only wish,” you laugh.  “That’d make everything easier, yeah?”

I still like you goes unsaid.  Though you suspect he understands when he pulls his hood over his head.

Instead, he diverts the conversation.  “Do you still feel nauseous?”  Smooth as always.

 “I don’t think so.”

“Good.  Let’s get you to bed, then.”

As you attempt to get up and nearly crack your head on the wall,“Prefect—!” he exclaims, his voice laced with more urgency than you’d like from him.  “Ugh, between you and Kalim, I’m going to have a heart attack by the time I’m 30.”

“Sorry~” you drawl with your eyes shut.  “But you don’t have to look after me, you know.  I know you don’t like me.  You don’t have to fake it anymore.”

You await a pointed assent from his sharp tongue, but it doesn’t come.

“Live to at least 50, okay?” you continue.  “I’m sorry.”

And you wonder if he’ll take you up on your offer and leave you to suffer on the cold bathroom floor.  But you feel his hand in yours, firm and calloused from unending servitude, and he gently pulls you up.  His hand feels nice; you’d felt it before but holding it now makes your heart clench in the most pleasant, masochistic way.

Time passes in blinks, and you soon arrive in your little dormroom, Jamil beside you to ensure you don’t black out and die.

“You should be able to brush your teeth now without wrecking your teeth,” you hear in the distance, already caught up in a half-dream state.

“Don’t wanna,” escapes your lips.  “Tired.”

But there’s a toothbrush in your mouth all of a sudden, and it doesn’t matter how you’re feeling because Jamil’s here for you.

You hate it.  You hate that he strings you along like this.

But he tucks you into bed propped up and you’re oh so tired, and the words just flow out: “I like you too much for my own good.”

And in the last moments of your consciousness, he pats your head.

“Me too.”

The police can’t stop you: Their bullets ricochet off you.  The fire department can’t stop you: Their fire hoses only add fuel to the fire, your mushroom costume expanding with water.  Nothing can stop you!  Not when you’re late for your first day of school >o<

You’re so close, only forty minutes late and two kilometres farther than you started—had to shake the cops, after all—when you meet him.

Your soulmate.  You know he’s your soulmate because of his killer fashion sense.  A fungal fashion sense, even.  (Yes, he’s wearing the exact same thing as you.  Couples matching outfits in advance.)

Also, he’s a hot biker boy.  You can tell because he has a bike and nobody who isn’t hot could rock a mushroom suit like that.

Also x2, he hit you with said bike.  You got five seconds of airtime, bounced three times across the pavement, and are now flat on the ground.

Also x3, his choice of bike: a tandem bike, without a partner (choose your favourite of the two methods in the linked video).  Pedalling at 65km/h (40mph).  Step aside, motorcyclists; solo tandem cyclists are the biker boys™ now.

(‘Why does Jade have a tandem bike to himself?’ you, reader, might ask.  ‘Did Floyd flake on him?’  No, Floyd has never seen this bike in his life.  A sappy couple left their rental unattended in the park and Jade knew what he had to do.)

“Oya oya~” Sex Appeal Incarnate laughs.  “My apologies.”

Coup de foudre.  “Hey, you look like a fun-guy." You fan your face, absolutely smitten with the guy who ran you over, cuz you’re a freak like that.  "You down for a date?”

“My, what a spore-adic proposal!  Let’s be on our way, then; I have space for a passenger on my bike.”

So you clamber onto the back seat, get pedalling, and leave your fate in Mushroom Man’s manly hands.

He immediately steers you both into a lake to see if your costumes will float.  They don’t, but they do absorb all the water in the lake.

Best date ever.