Boys Will Be Boys (v.2)

chapter eight - poles

*DOUBLE UPDATE* READ chapter seven - human burrito BEFORE THIS CHAPTER IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY.

chapter eight — poles

SCHOOL WAS FINALLY FUCKING OVER. The end of June was supposed to be a happy time since school had let out, but it was tragically shitty. It had been raining nonstop all week, the sky lovingly deciding to dump water on us without mercy. All week, I'd been driving the other guys crazy by dribbling in the house, using furniture to set up a fake defense I could practice around since I couldn't get outside. My Mum was used to it by now, so she just put post-its on the stuff she didn't want me moving, like the vase Gran had given her when she left Ireland. It was fucking ugly and cheap, a vomit green shade with pointless designs all over it, but Mum put it on the mantel like it held the shit of Jesus Christ himself.

"Man, stop balling for one fucking second and help me roll this joint, Kieran" Marco bit out, frustrated.

I sighed, tucking the ball under my arm before shoving Marco off the couch and returning his weed to the Ziploc baggie he'd brought it in.

"What the hell bro?"

"No smoking in my house, gives my Mum a headache" I shoved the bag at him, knuckles biting into his chest before dropping it into his lap. DJ hummed thoughtfully, grabbing the bag from Marco so he could stuff it into his backpack. Marco went crazy with it sometimes and I didn't really want to get high off secondhand pot fumes.

"You're just salty 'cause you're a virgin" Marco hissed, clearly already more gone than not. He held his fingers up to his forehead in the shape of an L, tongue wagging out childishly.

"I'm definitely not" I snorted, grabbing the trash off the couch so there was room to stretch out. Lukas was pretty conservative when it came to taking up room, but the left cushion of the couch was his spot. I wanted to make it as nice as possible for him. He didn't really get to sit down at his job — both of them.

The doorbell rang from upstairs and I scowled, pulling myself up the basement stairs so I could get the door. There was only one person polite enough to ring the fucking doorbell when the door was wide open and they had a clear invitation to enter. What a fucking cunt.

"Roger, you fucking walnut-sized balls chopstick-kinked motherfucker, don't fucking ring the doorbell"

Roger blinked slowly, before brushing past me.

"I'll do what I want you astroturd midget" He smiled coyly, pack of Oreos in hand as he jogged down the steps. Motherfucker bought snacks with him even though I specified he shouldn't bring anything.

I'm not a midget. What a dickass.

I smiled ruefully to myself, getting ready to close the door when I saw a random car pull into my driveway. I stepped outside, shutting the door behind me and crossing my arms across my chest. The pizza boy popped out of the car, retrieving the boxes from the backseat with surprising skill. His hair was that ugly failed-bleach orange shade, hues of green interwoven in the stringy locks, a rainbow pattern circling the rim of the sole of his Converse high tops.

"Oh," I shuffled my feet, pushing the door shut behind me as he jogged up the steps.

"Hey"

He raised an eyebrow, balancing all three boxes as he dug around in his pocket for a pen. I shoved some minimal tip in cash at him, and he hastily shoved it into his pocket. I'd paid for the pizza online with a card half an hour ago, so I didn't owe him anything.

"Sign here, please" He ignored me, and I grabbed the pen, not taking the boxes from him.

"Maxwell, right?"