(*****) – Flashback
((*****)) – End of Flashback
Warnings: Boyxboy, some mild swearing, danger of potential awesome overload. May be riddled with errors that I’ll clean up on a later date. (I really need an editor.)
*
Cooper
We are young.
We are allowed to act stupid. Get piss drunk, make mistakes, impregnate girls, break into the local pool and go skinny dipping at night, pick fights, get tattoos that we're going to regret later on. We are allowed to live, before we have to worry about bills and kids and pot bellies and mortgages and wrinkles underneath our eyes.
We are allowed to live.
Unfortunately, my best friend, Davey, doesn't get this.
"You're right," he says dryly, raising a pale, arched eyebrow when I try and explain the pure awesome that is regular partying. "I can definitely see the appeal in waking up with a blistering headache and no knowledge of where I am." He gives me his world renowned sarcastic, pointed look.
We are sitting in the makeshift tree house that my mum has banned us from. She says it’s rickety and ready to fall apart at any moment. I say we’re only seven feet off the ground.
There are dry leaves covering the floor and the smell of mold and aging wood is in the air, but I’m not ready to take it down. Dave and I built it with our dads when we were kids.
I’m trying to get Davey to live, to come to a party with me tonight. He’s flat out refusing.
"That's not what you're supposed to be focusing on!" I squawk, waving my arms around for further effect. "You're supposed to focusing on the women, and the beer, and grinding up against random strangers--"
"It sounds fun, Coop. Really, it does. It..." he squints, pressing a hand to his temple and cringing with a gasp. The pencil that he was holding slips from his fingers and he pales.
I lurch forward, worried, but he waves me off after a moment. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just a headache. What were we talking about again?”
I stare at him, folding my arms across my chest.
“Alright, that’s it. What’s wrong?” I frown.
He frowns back stoically, a long, pale arm reaching down to grab the pencil. I lean forward, across his legs, and grab it for him, setting it on the text books in his lap.
“Thanks,” he mutters, returning to whatever our teacher assigned us. Whatever. I could really care less, much to Davey’s chagrin.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“What question?” He looks up from his work again, biting a lip. It’s the only slightly-teenage thing that Davey does, and it’s only when he’s concentrating or nervous that he does it.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask slowly. “The headaches, the fact that you’ve been staring at the same question for about ten minutes now…” I trail off, looking at him. “What has you so stressed?”
