It's Just Us [🗸]

our seashell boys

JAMES

Just so we're clear, Will McClain is a dumbass.

Ironically, we've known each other forever. Fourteen years and counting. 

The first time we met, we were two stubborn daycare kids with scuffed knees and missing teeth. Kids that breathed in horseplay and chaos. First time my eyes met Will's, we were standing across from each other, centered in the middle of the neighborhood playground, flip flops pressing into the pebbles, gazes inquisitive.

Our first encounter is a muddled mess, disappearing into the plethora of all our other memories and what not. However, I have a vague idea of what went down that Saturday, at exactly 0900.

I'm guessing it was something along the lines of a little blonde kid playing in the sandbox on a hot summer day. Maybe a zoom-in to his sweaty face, suffering under the unrelenting Californian heat.

Then, enter stage left: A little curly haired kid walks up to him.

Little blond kid looks up and asks curly haired kid if he wants to search for seashells with him.

The offer is accepted, and the two kids essentially start searching for seashells in the sandbox every single day.

(They never find the seashells, but I digress)

Exit stage left: the two toddler kids walk out as best friends, conjuring the tumbling hurricane, of Will and I and giving birth to a strange fucking friendship. Nothing remarkable, but nothing mundane either.

A tale of how a friendship was born.

Definitely a moving story. 

With the stars emanating from his eyes, Will always eagerly shares the story, the words slipping from his lips like honey. There's a crinkle in his eyes, amusement that shines so bright, captivation isn't an option when listening to him.

It's a necessity.

Childhood stories aside, my aforementioned best friend is still a dumbass. 

He's laughing. Always laughing. Stupid shit, irritating shit. Amusing shit. To him, at least. He's the one that continues to laugh long after the joke has returned to the atmosphere. He's the one that commands attention with that laugh.

Right now, messy hair that he refuses to cut fall in front of his eyes, head pressed against my shoulder, grin wide, eyes flickering up to mine.

His eyes are doing that crinkling thing again, the lighting catching wisps of his irises as though this moment is his. 

My look remains blank, but he's practically cackling now, showcasing his pearly whites, and my lips quirk upwards, because it's hard not to laugh when he is.

"Comedic gold," I let the comment slide out dryly.

Will's grin screams stars. "No lies detected." A pause. His lip quirking upwards. "Asshat."