Mumble

②⓪①⑤ - C H A P T E R [6]

"Get lost kids," the bouncer was saying, pinching the girl's fake ID's between the thumb and forefingers on his right hand. He stared down at their linked arms and scoffed, shaking his head humorlessly and looking for all he's worth like he'd rather be anywhere but standing at the entrance of the club. "There's no way either of you are a day over sixteen."

The girl on the left bristled, Ozzie noticed, a petulant expression settling on her face. Her black-lined lips were set in a thin line and the heavy-set neon blue eye-shadow around her eyes made them glint dangerously. The bouncer inwardly groaned.

"Seriously?" She demanded, tugging at the hem of her too short dress with her free hand and gesturing to her outfit, "does this look sixteen to you?"

"Not a day older," the bouncer repeated-deadpan. He rubbed his face. "Look you're holding up the line. Just admit you got caught and go home. I ain't got time for this." The bouncer gestured with his chin for the couple behind them to walk in with a brutish sounding, "go." They jumped, startled, took one look at the scene in front of them and hastily walked in.

Ozzie sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair. It hung limply over his brows and the drying edges curled in the late evening breeze. Bright city lights danced off the tips, like a strobe-lit aurora as he listened. He slouched and tilted his head to the side, the bouncer's thuggish timbre carrying all the way down to his spot on the corner. He cracked his neck.

"Why'm I here again?" Ozzie asked without taking his eyes off the crack in the sidewalk, (it was a very interesting crack after all), his head angled to the side.

It had officially stopped raining not too long after James and Clint had arrived at the bookstore. The sky had cleared of clouds for the first time in what felt like a week and though it was chilly, the air was fresh and clean. Crisp. Devoid of smog.

"Because you love me and secretly want to be my doting house-husband," Clint drawled while inspecting his nails. He glanced up at Ozzie with a dull stare that would probably be more aptly called a glare if not for the fact that he had all the sarcasm in the world dripping off his tongue.

"House-husband," Ozzie repeated, wrinkling his nose in distaste, "do you actually think these things through or just say whatever comes to mind."

"Are you naturally an ass or are you really just that socially inept?"

Ozzie frowned. "I am not an ass. I just don't like bullshit."

Clint raised a perfectly arched eyebrow--you're welcome dick--looking wholly unimpressed. "Not a complete ass then," Clint amended after a moment of consideration.

Ozzie sighed.

Clad in an obnoxiously colored neon shirt; Clint resembled someone who'd raided a body paint store and wildly flung it all over themselves with reckless abandon. His pants were tight-tighter than Ozzie's- (the saying "so tight they might as well have been painted on" more than applicable) and were white with black duct tape pasted haphazardly across them. His eyes looked smoky: lined with deep greens and browns that brought out the hazel hue of them. Clint pursed his lips and placed a hand on his hip, eyebrow still raised.

"Of course," Ozzie conceded drily and looked at James; the James who cleared his throat, seemingly knowing without looking up from his phone that it was his turn to speak.

"'Cause Clint's a right little... shit when he doesn't get his way," he said distractedly while nimbly blocking Clint's swipe to his head with his elbow. "Gotta try harder than that, short stuff," James mumbled.

Clint huffed. "Oh, you did not just go there." James' grin was mischievous and Clint let out this weird flabbergastedly frustrated noise before lunging at the taller boy, "oh you little shit!"