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[ in which a character says something he regrets ]
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HUDSON PARKS LIKES solitude.
He likes solitude, but not in that introverted I like to sit in the tiny dark corner kind of way, because Hudson Parks really hates tiny dark corners (especially if it involves him sitting in them). Rather, it's in the I don't have to constantly share food and lend money to others because nobody asks kind of way, which suits him just fine.
He likes that his lunch and money remain his and not some random friend's who promises to repay the debt back on a fortnight, which everybody knows is just code for never.
(Because let's be real, no one remembers fortnights.)
He doesn't like small talk, he doesn't like loud people, and he doesn't like people who say twelve sentences when one would do.
No, he doesn't particularly like any of those things, but somehow they are all qualities eminent in his best friend, Roy.
Roy is amazingly riotous, perhaps the worst speller in the entire state, and has a knack for turning simple statements into incredibly perverted nuances. He's pretty sure that the only similarites they share are that they are both teenage boys. Most of the time, Hudson wonders how they even are friends in the first place.
Especially during times like these.
"What's six inches long, two inches wide, and drives all the women wild?" Roy asks with a goofy grin on his face that most definitely is not a result of the riveting logarithmic math equations they have to finish.
"Hmm?" Hudson asks.
"Just think about it."
Judging by the sly slant of his eyebrow, Hudson can infer that this probably has some perverted undertone to it. After a moment of too much thought, he realizes it.
"Roy-"
"Did you get it?"
He shifts uncomfortably. "Uh-"
Roy smiles wickedly. "Obviously it's-"
"No. Please, don't." He keeps his voice cleverly pitched under the normal chatter in the classroom, as he doesn't want the math teacher, Mr. Rembool, looking by just as Roy says something undoubtedly wrong.
Mr. Rembool is special, to say the least. From the tip of his socks and sandals to the top button of his orange houndstooth checkered shirt, he is indisputably the most flamboyant of the school staff. He actually has become quite notorious for something other than his fashion sense, though; his love of mockery, especially when it deals with student matters.
Just two weeks ago, he proceeded to read and show all of the contents (read: semi nudes saved on her photostream) of head cheerleader Sabrina Meyer's phone after she was caught texting in class, an experience nothing short of horrifying for her.
It goes without saying that Sabrina has never once taken out her phone during school hours ever again.
So with that in mind, quite clearly the first thing Hudson must do before Roy can continue the joke is to sneak a discreet glance at Mr. Rembool. When he looks over and sees his teacher is busy at work grading an Brobdingnagian pile of papers, he figures that today is not the day for total embarrassment after all.
"Hello? Hud? You even listening to me?"
He sighs, slumping lower into his desk like a wilting flower away from the harsh light that is Roy. "Yeah, yeah. The whole joke: six inches long, two inches wide. I got it. And quite frankly, I don't need to hear the answer to that."
"Want me to finish the joke?"
Hudson shakes his head. "No," he says.
"C'mon."
"Shut up, Roy."
"But... It's an one hundred dollar bill, of course!" he replies in a bright tone.
The relief of his answer is short lived, though, because this is quickly followed by the conspiratorially whispered words of, "And quite possibly my penis as well."
Hudson shoves him away irritably. Of course it had to be a dirty joke; there are no other types of jokes with Roy. He's a dirty, hormonal, mind-in-the-gutter teenager (or so is his justification), and even though Hudson should be used to it now, he isn't. He tries to block the following onslaught of comments after in favour of trying to finish the worksheet.
The perverse creature pouts when he realizes that Hudson's attention is elsewhere.
Needy bastard.
"Not even a laugh?" Roy queries, resting his head on his hand as he looks over to his friend's desk.
"Aww, Hud," he persists. "You gotta admit, that was pretty clever. Laugh."
"No," he says, his pencil moving diligently down the classwork.
"Sourpuss."
"Jackass," he says, his lip peeling upwards in distaste as he examines a long math problem.
A gleam filters through Roy's dark eyes. "Jack off, right?"
"Please-"
"Alright, alright, I promise, that was the last one."
It most definitely won't be the last one, and they both know this, but his statement does at least mean a four minute reprieve. Dirty jokes are nothing unusual; Hudson even laughs at them every once in a while if it's actually clever enough, but he's not in the mood.
No, he's really not in the mood.
Hudson sighs in mild disdain, and puts his pencil down gingerly. "I could really use a break right about now," he breathes, "seeing as Aspen has been talking my ear off for the past few days. I don't need you to do it as well." The memory of Aspen and her utterly perplexing speech on vegetarianism whilst standing on his doorstep leaves a sour taste in his mouth, causing him to grimace slightly.
"Aspen? Like, Aspen McKinley?"
"Yeah. There aren't exactly that many people named after mountains around here," Hudson says, pursing his lips in a way that resembles an elderly woman eating a lemon.
Roy just needs to be a smartass, it seems. "Technically a mountain resort. Or a ski area. Not just one mountain."
"Whatever, same thing. Your point?"
He shrugs. "What's the big deal in that?"
"Huge deal," Hudson mutters, "Like, taboo sort of matters."
"Oooh, that's some kinky-"
"Please sew your mouth shut."
He peels his face off from the desk, the residual stickiness between the two surfaces creating an odd noise. "So if you two weren't having mindblowingly hot-"
Hudson glares, irate, his feet tapping an irregular rhythm against the floor. "So, she kept on talking to me about lasagna and chicken noodle soup, but it wasn't really chicken noodle soup, so I don't know why they would call it that. More of tofu noodle soup. Except I don't even know if it was tofu because I didn't even bother to open it but I would assume since-"
He pauses.
Dear lord. He's turning into... Her.
Things are indeed very dire.
"I kinda just wanted to be left alone after that horrifying ordeal," he paraphrases instead.
Hudson conveniently leaves out the part about the invitation for Wednesday dinner, seeing as he will probably make a big deal out of it and assume it's a date, which it most definitely isn't.
Roy pauses and ponders on this information for a moment, a smirk creeping up near the edges of his lips. His exhalation is loud, and in it the scent of strong black coffee is present in the air that comes out of his mouth.
"You're looking at me oddly," Hudson warns.
He conveys a sizzling look hotter than an asphalt sidewalk in summer. "I've been enlightened," Roy states in an airy, glamourous voice as he presses the back of his hand to his forehead in a theatrical manner. Hudson thinks that he'd be perfect for drama, but Roy insists that the drama program can't handle all this hunk-of-delicious-man-god.
As if.
"Well, don't leave me hanging."
"It's just, the way you said it- I think-" he pauses dramatically, standing on the edge of an eureka moment.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"For fuck's sake, stop doing that stupid pose and just tell me before I-"
The bell rings.
The thing about walking in the halls of a public high school is that it's treacherous enough without having an obtuse best friend who refuses to stop doing to femme fatale pose. Roy's outstretched arm must have hit at least three clueless freshmen before Hudson manages to wrangle his arm in and demand for the epiphanic statement.
"Since the beginnings of dawn," Roy starts instead, "humans have-"
"Roy."
He drops the facade quickly. "I just wanted to let you know that if you ever need to talk about your secretive, pressing urges to hump Aspen McKin-"
It takes a split second to register, and his strangulated voice comes out meekly like the rawr of a bunny. An incredibly cute, really fluffy, vageuly terrified bunny. "What?!"
"I just thought that maybe you had an eensy weensy little crush on her," he admits, ruffling through his bag for something.
"Wait, no-"
"I mean, no dude can hold a grudge over a girl who they've talked to for just two minutes. It's like-"
"Please stop," Hudson hisses.
He doesn't even listen. "And I get it, your body is changing and your hormones are raging and-"
Shit. This, this is why he never wanted to bring it up in the first place. Roy likes to take tiny situations and blow them way beyond their porportions; if a room in a book is blue, to him it is because the blue represents the loneliness, the desperation, the isolation, the sheer depression of a character. It is for this reason that he is constantly lauded with English awards.
(Even though Hudson is ninety-nine percent sure the room is written as blue because the author just likes the colour blue.)
Hudson rubs his temples in a manner of an old man with a pounding headache. More of a migraine, really. "Never mind. Forget I asked. Do not, under any circumstances, ever finish that sentence."
He still does. "Look, she's pretty, but her figure? Nonexistant. I mean, no bust is forgivable, but no cuvature down below? I mean, you couldn't even-"
Something small inside of him snaps. "Why are you even still here and talking to me? Isn't your history class on the other side of the school?"
Far, far away from me?
"Shoot," Roy exclaims, face paling, the subject of Hudson's nonexistant crush dropped. "Think I can make it in time?"
He sneers. "You'd better start running."
One and a half seconds later, Roy is huffing and puffing his way down the hall. Hudson watches in dim amusement as Roy barrels across the linoleum, bumping into virtually everyone in a mess of panicked anxiety. Idiot, he thinks, a tad fondly.
Still, none of this would have happened if he didn't insist on making such a big deal about-
"Hi!"
Fudge nuggets.
"Aspen..." Hudson trails off uneasily as she falls into step next to him. He casts a look upward, praying for the patience to make it through one conversation without saying something stupid.
"Have a good day?"
Rebel Hudson rears its ugly head. It was better before you showed up.
"Oh, uh, fine," he chooses to answer instead.
She is practically buzzing with energy and smells very faintly of coffee, which only makes him even more nervous. A regular Aspen is already more than enough than he can handle. It is not the day to deal with one hyped up on coffee and perpetual happiness.
Roy and Aspen are uncannily alike, Hudson realizes with a jolt. Sure, Aspen is smaller and bubblier and not nearly as perverted (she might be, but he doesn't really know her that well), but they both are so extroverted and garrulous and probably addicted to coffee.
So what the hell are the two of them doing interacting with him; an introvert who can't ingest an ounce of caffeine or sugar without throwing up in glorious technicolor?
Ever the ignorant one, Aspen looks over at him, her bright yellow cardigan nearly blinding him as she speaks. "So, uh, I thought that for the Thanksgiving party; y'know, the one the day after tomorrow," she starts off, and when he catches a whiff of her breath, all he can think is good god how much coffee has she had?
A lot.
"You should stop by at around seven," Aspen continues, nodding to herself as if going through a mental checklist. "It's alright if you're early or late, though, because my dad has this open door policy so you could walk in during the dead of night and I think he would be okay with it. But he might assume you were, like, a burglar or something so that's probably not the best idea unless you like being tased-"
"Oh well-"
"And I'm assuming that you probably don't like to be tased-"
"Not very much, no-"
"So it probably is best if you arrive at around seven, because that's when most of the guests will be coming anyway."
Oh. Yes. That.
"I can't make it. Sorry."
He doesn't exactly know where those words came from, as up until this point Hudson has been fully prepared to endure the arduous task of sitting through the McKinley dinner party. Even though he probably won't enjoy it, it is just one night, and he has agreed to it.
That reasoning, however, seems to fly out the window as soon as Aspen's predictable yet still frustratingly unpredictable rant starts spewing out. All he knows it that spending three hours, with her, is quite obviously a no.
A curious expression crosses Aspen's face. "Oh. Why not?"
He lets out a deep breath and blows some of the hair out of his eyes. Now he has to come up with a plausible excuse.
And so, Hudson Parks says the first thing that comes to his mind, which comes out rather dreadfully. Horrifyingly. Embarrassingly. He really should think these things through, because once the words come out of his mouth, there is no taking it back.
Ususally Hudson Parks is the epitomé of good graces and perfectly formulated, logical explanations. His thoughts are, for the most part, as organized as a college thesis typed in times new roman twelve point font. Organized. Predictable.
But not this time. Everytime she comes around, everything just seems to automatically be set to the screw-up tab in the menu options.
Every time.
This time.
This time, there really aren't that many words to describe his social impairment when it comes to dealing with situations other than plain stupidity.
"Uh, well, you see- Usually, in the evenings... I- I have these chronic flare-ups of mildly explosive diarrhea."
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The next day, Hudson stays home.
He manages to convince his mother that he is sick (but he most definitely does not mention having any case of any sort of diarrhea), which really isn't all that hard to fake, seeing as he has had a front row performance of the flu for the past week or so.
His mother, who is still slightly ill with a nasally voice and spastic coughing fits, is horrified at the notion that she has spread the virus to her own son, and quickly suggests that they stay home together for the day.
He is grateful for the ruse.
Hudson only hopes that Aspen will be too disgusted at his fake health issues to check up on him. If she does, surely she'll mention something about the explosive case he has on his hands to his mother, and she, for sure, knows that he has no raging case of explosive anything (insert innapropriate Roy-like comment here).
And, possibly, if his luck holds up, he'll manage to convince his mother that he is too sick to go the McKinleys' party tomorrow. All seems well for the time being.
Which is exactly why she has to come along, as usual, and ruin that.
It isn't exactly the same though, because this time, instead of her actually coming to the house and disrupting the order of the universe, she chooses to leave a basket at the doorstep without her presence (she probably doesn't want to catch an explosive case of diarrhea, he guesses).
It pretty much goes downhill from there.
Sometime during Hudson's afternoon nap, his mom peeks into his room and sets the gift on his bureau before quietly stepping out once again. When he wakes up half an hour later, groggy and vaguely confused, the bright white whicker basket is the first thing he notices. Half awake, he stares uncomprehendingly at it for a moment.
What's in the basket?
More food, of course. More. Food.
And he knows there are only so many people that would send food like that.
With a sigh, and the decision that food is, well, food, and that he is just a tad hungry, Hudson gets up and inspects the contents for any sweets. The basket is filled with muffins; brown ones, but he doesn't know specifically what flavour.
Then comes the dreaded part.
He reads the card.
Hope your stomach feels better and your diarrhea eases up soon! In the meantime, I made you some food. Bran muffins work wonders with digestive problems. Sorry you couldn't make it to the party, a chronic condition like that must be a pain -Aspen ;)
Bran.
Digestive problems.
Diarrhea.
A winky face.
Mortification. The only thing he feels is pure mortification. The fact that she can write "hope your diarrhea gets better soon" in such a casual and unabashed way makes him wonder. A lot.
"Why?" Hudson mutters. The question comes out a bit louder than anticipated, though, because a few seconds later his mom pokes her head through the slightly ajar doorway and asks if everything is alright.
"Everything fine?" she queries again when he fails to answer the first time.
The card crumples audibly in Hudson's hand. "Yeah," he says, but her eyes are on the card still in his hand as she smiles in that slightly annoying but completely loveable motherly way that always makes him feel like he's two years old.
His mom smiles. "What does it say? It's from Aspen, right?" she questions, crossing the room with the intent of reading it.
Please don't please don't please don't please don't. "Oh, uh, nothing big. Just, er, to get well soon and all that stuff from her," he stutters meekly, adding a stray cough somewhere in the sentence. There is no way his mother is reading the card.
Her grin only increases ten-fold at his attitude, and he gets the feeling she's misinterpreting the barely-there relationship he and Aspen have.
"Can I see it?" It's more of a statement that a question.
"Well," Hudson mutters quickly, "it's just the whole standard get well soon-"
"Oh, well I'm sure it's lovely-"
No. "Uh, it's nothing. Really. I-" he is cut short when his mom simply tuts and pulls the card out of his hand.
The change of expression on her face would actually be quite comical.
If, you know, he wasn't about to get eternally grounded for making such a preposterous lie.
Her eyes narrow visibly. "Digestive problems?" she reads, unsure. Her brows furrow, and Hudson can all but feel the individual drops of sweat sliding down the back of his neck.
Escape options: window (although considering his room is two stories up, it isn't a preferable option), the door (the most sensible route, but his mom is kind of sort of completely blocking that possibility), or under the bed (which isn't so much as "escaping" as it is just plain moronic).
Note to self: make better plans.
"Hudson, what did you do?!"
Oh, nothing. I just told some girl I don't really like but apparently you really like that I can't make it to her really awkward let's-invite-strangers-the-day-before-Thanksgiving-party because I have this bad case of explosive diarrhea in the evenings. "Er..."
"Hudson?" she asks again, her voice bordering an impatient stage whisper.
It's never to late for the window! How far could it really be? 10, 20, 30 feet? Or-
"Hudson, I asked you a question."
He sighs, and looks at the ground in an unpleasant mixture of frightened and embarrassed. There are only so many ways to say it, and he's pretty sure not a single one of them involves a way to tell his mother about this fictitious case of diarrhea without sounding embarrassing.
"I don't want to go to Aspen's party," he mumbles to the hardwood floor, settling for the fastest and vaguest reply.
His mother gives him an odd look at the seemingly unrelated answer, asking slowly what that has to do with anything. He fidgets uncomfortably, not only because he knows she doesn't tolerate lies, but also because the word diarrhea is becoming increasingly unpleasant to think about saying, much less actually say out loud.
She looks at him through slitted eyes. "And that has to deal with this because?"
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit, he thinks.
Which is pretty ironic, seeing as his problem is literally shit.
"I may have told her that I had this case of chronic diarrhea to get out of going?" he manages. The statement does not come out as inexorably rushed nor is it quiet to the point of no recognition, as this is something he would rather not have to repeat.
If possible, it sounds even more stupid out loud than in his head.
"What?!"
His mom isn't overly pleased with the explanation. She rubs her temples in a fashion that Hudson has long since picked up from her, resigned. "You didn't want to go to a Thanksigiving party with our neighbours, so you used a bad case of diarrhea as an excuse?"
His chest heaves. "Yes."
Something, something with a twinge of humour, almost appears on her face before it is quickly dashed. "Why, Hudson?" she asks, more to herself than him. "Why didn't you just tell me you didn't want to go instead of saying something like that to her?"
Hudson frowns helplessly, looking at the palms of his hands, which have suddenly become very interesting. "I don't know," he confesses. "I just- I wasn't thinking. I didn't want to get into an argument with you and Aspen asked why I couldn't go so I panicked and-"
He peels his gaze from his hands to his mother. "I'm sorry."
There is silence, so he repeats, "I'm sorry, Mom."
She frowns slightly and gives him a condescending look, the ones that are usually meant for sending six year olds to timeouts. He isn't quite sure which is worse; the embarrassment of admitting such a lie to his mother or her disappointment in him for doing it in the first place.
He hates disappointing her.
His mother's eyes close briefly, impatiently. "I'm not the one you should be apologizing too. Besides, you know my policy about lying," she says firmly, her voice lined with steel.
Hudson casts a gaze down at his socks. "So am I grounded?"
He's pretty sure there is something wrong with his ears when she says no, so he asks again hesitantly.
"No, you are not grounded. What you did was wrong, but I'd like to think that you are smart enough to realize the repercussions of your actions by yourself," she confirms, which sends Hudson's heart flying into a euphoric rush. The tiny, rational part of his brain that states this is far too good to be true is pushed to the outer depths of his subconscious.
Rational be damned. This, this, is pretty fucking great.
No logic needed.
He grins gleefully. "I know, and I am sorry. Thanks for giving me a chance, though."
She smiles at this, like there's some sort of inside joke Hudson doesn't understand, which never is a good indicator. Inch by inch, the smile slides off his face as she continues. "Don't thank me just yet. I'm not grounding you, but you do have to go to the McKinley party tomorrow," she glares at him. "And that is final."
So after going through the humiliation of going through with such a hastily made excuse to get out of a party, Hudson still has to go to said party. And talk to Aspen. Who thinks he has some weird digestive issues.
And sent him bran muffins.
For those "issues".
He splutters at her punishment. "But, mom!" he whines, hands clasped in a pleading gesture. His knees squeak as he kneels down against the hardwood. "Can't you just ground me for a week?"
She doesn't even need to think about it. "No, and no negotiating. And get up off of the floor."
He complies with the latter. "But-"
"I'll even make you some fruit kabobs to take over tomorrow!"
"That's not the point, I-"
"You're going. End of conversation."
"What am I supposed to say?!" he reasons. "Hey, Aspen! I know I told you I had these really odd case of diarrhea but will you let me in to join your fabulous party anyway?!"
His mom cracks a smile at that, and one of her dark brows raises an inch up her forehead.
"Just tell her it went away once your liarhea cleared up."
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The only thing worse than having diarrhea, Hudson thinks, is lying about it.
Because when you lie about it, everyone else thinks you have it even though you know that you absolutely do not and then suddenly people start avoiding you like the plague and send you bran muffins and you still have to go to their party which brings up the question of the century: Tell Aspen that he lied and be a jackass or pretend he still has diarrhea and make her uncomfortable?
He still doesn't know what he's supposed to do, even now when he's looking the McKinley household door in the face. He glares irritably at the bright red doorbell for a moment and wonders who in their right mind would paint their fucking doorbell before he presses the annoyingly coloured button and awaits for the answer, resigned.
A few seconds later, Aspen opens the door, a bright smile on her face (shouldn't she be screaming away in disgust by now?). "Hudson!" she beams instead, "Hi!"
He shoves the tray of food his mom made into her hands quickly, embarrassed. "Er, hi, Aspen. My mom wanted me to give this to you."
She nods in genuine appreciation, and to his surprise, doesn't even look mildly horrified when his hands brush against hers. "Thanks!"
"Uh, well, no problem."
Aspen nods and steps aside, where he is sheltered from the chilly November air. "I didn't think you would be able to make it," she says, taking his coat for him and hanging it on a hook. Her next words come out in a slightly teasing tone. "So... Did the bran muffins help at all?"
"Well-"
Time to come clean, it seems. There isn't much of a point to continue this whole charade, partially because he really doesn't like other people believing he has these dreadful intestinal issues and also because this tiny, tiny, tiny part of him feels bad for lying to Aspen. If anything, she has been nothing to nice to him, and even though the fact that he does not particularly like her still remains, he doesn't think anyone with good intentions should be misguided.
"Listen," he starts hesitantly, unsure of what to say, "Aspen, about the whole illness thing... I-"
"I know, you don't have diarrhea, right?" she finishes, her lips pressing together to hide a laugh.
He frowns and shoves his hands into his pockets, his cheeks flaming to the same bright colour of her goddamn doorbell. "You could tell?"
Aspen looks at the partially sheepish expression on his face, and her giggles come tumbling out in loud peals. "I figured," she says, her tone somehow still happy, "That anyone with chronic flare-ups of mildly explosive diarrhea, if it is such a thing, wouldn't admit it so openly."
Huh. "So if you knew," he asks slowly, "Why didn't you call me out on it?"
She shrugs. "I figured you must have your reasons," Aspen explains.
"Oh."
She waves her hands and calls them bygones, ushering him into the main living room where he can hear the roar of conversation and some old seventies background music playing from an old cassette player in the corner.
Aspen gives him a gentle pat on the back. "You made it just in time," she gushes. "The party's just getting started!"
Just getting started.
Oh, the joy.
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a/n: asdfghjkl i used the word diarrhea about seventeen times in this chapter. are you proud? i'm proud. i am so proud.
random side-note but recently i've been seeing so many stories where the male protagonist has the hottest "crooked smile" and i'm like no if my smile was that asymmetrical people would think there was something wrong with my lips (but if your smile is crooked then i bet it looks awesome).
comments are very much appreciated (i love hearing what you guys think!). really. yesh. sooo.
mira.