♫♪Without a Cause♫♪ [BoyxBoy] (Three-shot)

Part 1

A/N:

 

(Hey! It’s been awhile! I bet some of you were wondering if I’d ever post again. Psh, have some faith, will ya?)

This is probably the most vexing time I’ve ever had while writing a one-shot. (**Three-shot.) Over a period of a year and a half—writing on and off—I cried, I screamed, I breathed angst and I loved. This—this was just agonizing. Holy crap. When I started writing this I knew it’d be at least 20,000 words long. I knew. I saddled into it anyways, thinking I could honestly handle whatever was thrown at me. Nope. There were a lot of pauses, a lot of times when I thought I wouldn’t finish it. There were emotions and rethinks and rewrites of each personality. It was just…such a painful process to write such inherently unhappy characters and writing a long fic with a ton of self loathing is never a fun experience. I finished it for yooooou.

I know Dixy cup should be dix(ie) with an ‘ie’, but since I’m using it as a nickname I’m sticking with a ‘y’.

I’m not always the best with grammar…and spelling mistakes tend to escape anybody that decides to self edit. Feel free to point out an error and exactly where you found it so I can correct it.

I misused slang purposely BECAUSE I’M COOL LIKE THAT. Also, HOLY SHIT, REFERRING TO PEOPLE AS CATS IS JUST—IT’S GREAT, IT REALLY IS. IT’S THE BEE’S KNEES. I DON’T CARE IF IT’S TECHNICALLY A JAZZ TERM, FUCK YOU.

Warnings:

Over usage of slang. Misuse of slang (WHY DON’T WE TALK LIKE THAT ANYMORE? *SOBSOB*). Leather jackets galore. Enough grease to fry some chicken. Boys and girls that have a penchant for dirty words, especially those that start with the letter F. Sexy situations. Bloody situations. Drugged up situations. Dub-con (for you non-fanfic experts: dubious consent concerning sex). Angst, angst and more angst. (Really, enough angst to drown a gorilla.) Clever use of 50’s trademarks (included, but not limited to, drive-in movies, diners and old-school car drifting). Fighting and the inevitable switch-blade. And last, but certainly not least, the beauty of a 30+ thousand word count. If none of this scares you off, then by all means…enjoy!

(FUCK YOU WATTPAD FOR ALWAYS SCREWING WITH MY SPACING AND TRYING TO KILL ME. IM SORRY IF ANYTHING SEEMS OFF, I'M TRYING TO FIX ALL THE GLITCHES!)

Fall of 2012

 It’s easy to tell when somebody has an interesting past. There’s that look in their eye, that wide stretch of colorful freedom humans wield however they see fit. Sometimes it’s with purpose. Sometimes it has no explanation. Some people will do what they gotta do to pass the time. However way you want to look at it, it’s there and it’ll never leave, no matter how many people wish it would. A past is a past, with the good, the bad, the misery and the joy—it’s a colorful freedom that leaves its print on all of us.

 A boy at fifteen didn’t know much concerning this subject matter. He had fifteen years of life in a nice suburban neighborhood, and half of those years were spent in the naivety of childhood. His past was tests, friends and parents. He had only one true misery to speak of in those fifteen years of life, and that was heartbreak.

 It was one of those sucker-stories, one of those tiny mistakes that seem so life threatening at the time. Actually, looking back on it now—only hours after the entire incident had blown up—he’d say it really wasn’t all that interesting. Maybe the situation was different, maybe the people added to the whole thing, but a kid being rejected and then decked in the face really wasn’t all that fantastically novel worthy or mysterious. It was just life and he was just on the bad end of it at the moment.