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[author's note: Sorry for the delay, my weekend was really shitty and I was in no mood to write. anyway, I hope this chapter slightly makes up for it...]
I wish it was later right now. Since it’s only seven or eight o’ clock, there’s still a whole lotta sunlight highlighting the cement tiles we’re treading, and I’m nervous. I’m nervous because Morgue’s arms are draped around my neck, and his booze-numbed lips keep veering towards my face, and oh god, someone could see us. If it was under certain circumstances, I wouldn’t mind, but this is different, isn’t it? As we walk– or, really, as I walk and Morgue gets inadvertently dragged along– he keeps mumbling incomplete phrases; these little vague apologies that I have to keep hushing away with assurances and condolences. I’m really starting to wish I had just left him, drunk and miserable, at Em’s house, like the horrid friend I wish I was. As I had feared, some neighbors are starting to poke their beady eyes out of living room blinds. They’re openly staring, and it’s really pissing me off. So what if it looks like we’re some gay couple? How would that matter, anyway? Incensed, I give the middle finger to a few peeping Toms– and almost instantly, curtains close, and the gossip gals (and guys) are gone. This makes the trip a little less unbearable, though the constant scent of booze breath is almost enough to counteract it. I’m beyond relieved when finally we stumble into Lewton-Rich, the snobby-ass neighborhood that Morgue and his family call home. His house, which is just three stories, is like a Ipod shuffle among gold-enameled boomboxes, but it’s still the nicest place I’ve ever been to...and not just because it’s posh. If you’ve ever watched Leave it to Beaver, it’s like that: beautiful, nice people living in this beautiful, nice world where no one knows the meaning of “shitty”. Even now, I can see Mrs. Berkley watering her small, elegant flower garden near the front of their yard, dressing in a real rich housewife getup– polka-dot sundress, celeb-style shades, and a stainless little sunhat to protect her newly blonde locks. She waves to us as I hobble towards the front door– Morgue’s been starting to fall asleep on my shoulder.
“Derek!,” She chirps in greeting. “I was wondering where Morgue had gone off to...is something wrong?”
“No, he’s just...a little tired...” Morgue’s head begins to slip down my chest, and Mrs. Berkley looks alarmed.
“Oh my Lord, what in the world was he doing?”
I shrug a shoulder, reverting Morgue to a standing position. “Just...playing soccer. We were,” I add.
She gives me a weird glance– not skeptical, just...weird– and smiles. “Of course you were,” She says softly, placing her hand on my shoulder for a confusing moment before walking away. Ok, that was strange. But I don’t have much time for contemplation, because my best friend’s drooping like a dying flower, and it’s with an embarrassing amount of difficulty that I slip through the front doors and carry my relatively lightweight friend bride-style up the stairs and into his large but cramped bedroom. I drop him like a load of bricks onto the bed, and turn away because I want to go home now and get this whole day over with, but I feel something grabbing at the back of my shorts. I sigh, and do a 180– of course it’s Morgue, who’s suddenly shifted into consciousness.
“Don’t leave.”
“I have to, I have to go home.”
“Don’t. Not yet.”
“Morgue...” I shake my head, and carefully remove his curled fingers. “Just sleep it off, you’ll be alright. You only had a beer or two.”
“No,” He rasps. “Don’t go...I’m sorry I made you mad. I’m sorry, I really am. Just stay with me...”
“You didn’t make me mad, Morgue. Just go to sleep already. In the morning you’ll feel better.”
“Can’t you sleep over?”
He shoots a look at me like the ones the starving children do in those commercials, but my stomach lurches at the thought of sleeping in the same bedroom as Morgue. Sure, we used to have sleepovers before, but now....
“We used to have them all the time,” He adds, like he’s read my mind.
I look away, because it’s hard to stare at him without feeling guilty. He needs me right now, for support or something, and if I was really his best friend I would stay, wouldn’t I?
“Well....”
“Please?” His right arm’s stretching its farthest so his hand can encompass mine, and I guess he doesn’t realize how much this is endangering his agenda because he holds tightly onto it in a way I can’t help but interpret as more-than-friendly.
There seems to be no way out of this. I nonverbally promised when I became Morgue’s friend on the playground that day that I would stick with him through thick and thin, through rain and hail and sleet and snow and...oh, wait, I think that’s for something else.
“Foss,” He whines in a high-pitched voice, and tugs on his hand, catching me off-guard so I fall onto the bed, almost on top of him. Oh, yep, this is perfect. Exactly what I wanted. If someone came in right now, it’d look like we’re about to ****.
I settle next to him on the queen-sized bed, and I groan to myself as his arms begin to creep their way around me. With a soft sigh, he shuffles a bit and then begins to snore as loud as a bullhorn.
I lay there uncomfortably as the clock above ticks away, but then I think, “What the hell,” and close my eyes. Sure, this is a little ****** up, but it’s not so bad. It’s not like anyone’s going to think we’re sleeping together or anything...that’d be ridiculous. My thoughts begin to fade as I yawn and my head drops into the curve of Morgue’s neck. It’s really nice and warm to be laying here, on this bed...and I never realized before how tired I am, too. I blink my eyes once, twice– but it’s no use. Before I know it, I’m out like a rock.
Copyright 2008 retrocious.[/sneh]
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