781Aw, your reactions to the first chapter were so sweet…how can I not love you! I want to turn you all into grape-falvoured chewing-gum and then chew you forever and neverspit you out!...uh, yeah, I'm weird.
ANYWAY! I'd like to apologize for the shortness of this chapter. I much prefer writing from Dale's POV that Syl's, so I don't think we'll get as much Syl chapters as Dale ones. Unless you guys really like Syl chapters, and then I might do more. We'll see. It all depends on you, my lurvelies!
Now. Thanks again for the reviews, you sublimitingelingaring people. I LURVE YOU::give you huge slobbery kisses::
Warning: SLASH, (yaoi, boys love, mxm, shonen-ai…you know what I'm talking about) and SWEARING. Loads of it. May be some violence. Also: high bubble content. BE WARNED.
Rating: as of now? T.
Summary: I blame the bubbles. It's all the bubbles' faults. The fact that everything is going weirder and weirder between Syl and I…not my fault. DAMN BUBBLES.
Bubbles
II-Syl
Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck. Him. Fuck him! Fuck you, Dale! Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou!
I mean, come on! I've been trying to keep things as normal between him and I for ages now, but how the hell am I supposed to control myself when he keeps being so fucking…him!
So what? I'm just supposed to sit beside him and do nothing? I just have to look at the way his wet hair (too long and mousy and in desperate need of a haircut) sticks to his neck, the way that fucking I Eat Bunny For Breakfast T-shirt keeps falling off this unhealthily-pale, skinny shoulder, the way his stupid oversized pyjama trousers hang around his girlishly slim hips and not do anything and then have him throw himself at me and not do anything either? I'm not a fucking saint, goddamnit! Why can't he understand that? He's so fucking naïve it's driving me crazy. For such a smart guy, he is just so clueless I sometimes feel like killing him. Chocolate ice-cream? You jerk! If there's anything I want to lick right now it's certainly not chocolate icecream!
Why? Oh, why, why, why? Why did it have to be him, of all people? I saw him grow up, for God's sake! We blew spit bubbles together! We locked Am in a closet! We peed over people's head when they walked under the little bridge in Duckerfield Park! We played air-guitar half-naked to Greenday on rainy days! We saw each other in the worst possible conditions: bruised and covered in mud; face dripping with spit; dressed in drag; panting from jerking off; even fucking naked! Dale is supposed to be my best friend and enemy! Were in a love-hate, for-better for-worst relationship! We're supposed to confess or embarrassing anecdotes to each other and then fight until we can't breathe; play video games for hours on end and then slag each other off; make fun of our siblings and then hitting each other! Except that now, it's all changed. Whenever we're playing video games, it's the way he flicks that goddamn awful hair away from his face that gets me, not just the thrilling combats.
When we're arguing it's the way his mud-brown eyes arrow, the way his mouth curves into this angry little squiggle, the way his whole skinny little body tenses up that make it so great, not just scoring points against him.
When we're sharing our dark secrets it's how he bows his head and his hair falls over his face, how his little boy's cheeks flush deep rosy pink, how he twists his long fingers together, how he grins nervously that make it so worth it, not just gaining information for future blackmail.
When we fight, it's the feeling of his body, lean and hard and small and weak beneath mine, the sheer closeness that makes me never want to move away, not just having power over him.
It's all moved from a pair of boys' game to this sensual obsession that I have with him, with his body and the way he moves and his expressions and just him. And he just doesn't realise. He simply won't see. He still thinks it's all the same as it ever was—but it's not, and I can't tell him, because he is such a fucking child that way, he'd just slip from my grasp like a fucking bar of fucking soap!
Oh, why? Why the fuck did it have to be him? I can have anyone that I want, but I have to want the only one I just can't get. What I need is a girlfriend. Someone to effectively take my mind off him. Because I'm slowly going crazy out there and he just doesn't realise, because he is a fucking idiot. Yeah: he is a fucking idiot and I want him, so it makes me a fucking idiot too. Good, now we're both fucking idiots.
The day after the Bubble and Fuck-you Incidents, I decide to look for a girlfriend at College. It's surprisingly hard, because even though there are millions of pretty single girl around and I'm super-popular with them, I kind of find it hard to pick one I'd rather go out with. I keep spotting one, and then thinking: 'Nah…she's too blonde and bimbo-ish.'
Or: 'Meh, she's just far too loud and happy and annoying.'
Or: 'Far too pretty.'
Or: 'Far too confident.'
Or: 'Far too girly.'
Or: 'Far too slutty.'
Or: 'Far too stupid.'
Or: 'Far too sophisticated,' and on and on and on and on…
I spend the whole week trying to find one that suits my taste. I would never have thought it would be so hard, what with all the choices that I have, but maybe this is my problem: too much choice. After several days, I realise at what I'm truly looking for is a Dale-replacement. Someone smart and shy and awkward and sweet and crazy and geeky and obsessive and naïve and skinny and mousy and…and Dale. When I realise that, I immediately decide to pick the blondest, most good-looking, most empty-headed, most boring and most (there is no other word for it) bratzesque girl I can find.
So I do.
She's called Sabrina ('giggle-like the witch!-giggle) and she's in the same Media class as I am. Needles to say, she's failing it.
At lunch-time, I approach her with all the renown Syl-charm: I flirt, I demand her number, force mine on her, cheekily order her to have date with me, pout my mouth at her, dazzle her and finally part with her by blowing a kiss in her direction.
On Friday evening, we meet at the nearest shopping centre. She's wearing a short, clingy white top, an extremely short jean skirt that hangs on her very curvy hips, furry white boots, a tiny purse, too much jewellery, too much make-up and no coat. I think of Dale, with his slender hips and baggy oversized clothes and his ancient trench-coat and his inseparable messenger bag, filled with incredible amounts of junk, and I give Sabrina (giggle-like the witch!-giggle) a satisfied smile.
Yep, she's exactly what I'm looking for.
A/N: Yes, Syl is an utter tool. Don't worry, I hate him too. ::hates Syl::
Feel free to send as much hate-mail as you want, and I shall pass it all on to Syl. Kicks, blows, whippings and train crashes will also all be passed on to him…I'll make sure of it ::demonic cackle::
I apologize for the shortness of this chapter. And I also apologize for the lack of bubble-ness.
Please don't whip me! Oh wait—
Please do::perverted wriggle of eyebrows::
Reviews, please? Weeee I loveyewsssss! XXXXD
Happy new year to you all, by the way! See you all soon when I next update! lovesies and kissies from your very own Freak of Spade and Mind/Muse!