You don't mention how his car smells like Maya's cheap strawberry shampoo because it's just paranoia and that's exactly what you tell yourself. Don't worry, it's not that you're jealous. (Maybe you are, just a smidge, since she has the fire-starting courage to inch her face to his, within some kind of dangerously close nose-touching radius, even if it's just to shout mockery; she bit lip once-but it was nothing.)
You just lean back in the leather bound passenger seat and close your tired eyes. Lucas was taking you to some random science fair you didn't really care about but being overshadowed every day at school began to get a tad boring for you. After school activities that you really didn't care about began to take up your time. Your friends complained, but didn't fight against it.
(You don't remember what Lucas had said about that, but you do remember him offering you a ride almost every time you'd tell them about something else you planned. He made himself a regular in your schedule.)
"Nervous?" he asks, and you don't catch his eyes flickering over at you because your eyes are still closed and your heart is still attempting to calm itself.
You scoff at that, laughably offended. "Did you just ask me if I was nervous?"
You don't get nervous. You don't go timid. Hell, you're never even scared.
But you'll hear the words, "My bad," and imagine the smile on his face because you're friends, and you talk about girls and what's pleasing about certain traits and features like you care because you do. Or you're suppose to. Fuck—you don't even know.
(And although he violates those protocols, you're not ready to admit otherwise.)
.
.
.
You become teen angst in tragic black and white.
He becomes a walking talking cliché of the perfect blend of jock, gentleman, and daredevilry.
But you've always been more of a daredevil since you've organized your own dictatorship back in middle school and have been one of many to follow Maya into the school grounds of rebellion.
(She'd pulled him close that time and he didn't pull back because she was the devil herself and maybe he needed the extreme more than the crazy psychotic nerd that you were.)
It's you who calls him in the middle of the night to inform him about that construction site atop those haunted burial grounds. (Your school was crazy, mostly in the stupid way.) You're a scientist, so the thought of supernatural beings gave you nothing but a small headache. No chills or goosebumps. Because you were fearless.
(You always were, despite that being, like, impossible.)
You wait by the closest bus stop for his dark green truck to pull up. He's still in his random faded tee and plaid pajama pants. You pulled a hoodie over your PJs, but didn't bother to fix your hair.
(There's about fifteen minutes of nothing but spraying street lights, bad radio, and unrequited glances from both parties. There's also the occasional recap of school happenings: he got on the football team, and you're happy for him, but then explain how unsurprising it is because, well, "Look at you."
He grins, but doesn't laugh, or maybe Farkle just didn't hear because he's too busy looking out the window to hide the burn in his cheeks.)
Once you get there, somehow you end up walking across a wooden plank with no floor for a good ten feet, hard concrete waiting below. You do this kind of thing because you're teen angst in black and white and nothing can stop you from absolutely destroying yourself.
Lucas hasn't done anything, really. He's just watched you and your fearless ways, and you decide then that you're not as influential as Maya. You can't control Lucas like her.
(Because, really, what was the whole point in coming out here?)
Your thoughts slip. You slip. You think about destruction as you fall, and it's not just yourself-it'll be the whole goddamn village that you'll blow up.
Just as you hit rock bottom, you hear a crack, feel a twist, and something sets fire to your side and some other places you can't quite point out.
You don't know much, you decide.
All you know is that Lucas screamed your name and carried you back to the car. All you know is that he ran a couple of red lights and brought your head to his neck and he consoled you in your shifts to and fro of consciousness as he ran his calloused fingers through reddish-brown bedhead. All you know is that he told you how strong you are as he desperately made sure that you held his sweater firmly to your side throughout the full trip.
(You know he called you buddy way more than once because you guys were friends, and you'd protect each other like brothers. Or maybe you weren't even on that level. Fuck—you don't even know.
You don't know.)
You wake up in a hospital. The coldness of the room stings you.
He's gone.
But the nurse tells he left, like, a thousand messages.
.
.
.
Turns out something metal had lodged into your side, breaking a few ribs. (And a few hearts, but you'd never guess that.)
You're bedridden for a few months or so.
He never visits without the girls, which you're both grateful and annoyed with.
.
.
.
After that whole hospital shit is over and done with, Riley's got the whole Harry Potter series at standby and a thirst for nostalgia.
(And you smile because you're the only other one who's a Potterhead in the group so only you could make her happy this way, and it's a nice feeling, with a hint of selfishness.)
She sits with you on the couch, curling onto your shoulder because she's that kind of person. She talks through the movie, and you don't complain because you're used to it; she talks about her new hatred for the cheerleading squad, this new bubble tea place she adores, Maya's art show, Zay's dance performances, L u c a s.
(Though that one's a bit arguable—she's more so trying to make you talk.)
"You and him," she'll say vaguely.
He inquires reluctantly, "What about me and him?"
"You guys don't talk a lot."
You shrug.
"Are you guys alright?"
And you laugh. Breathy. Inaudible. "You don't have to worry about me and him."
.
.
.
"I tried to call you the other day."
"I was just with Riley."
"Oh."
". . . But it was nothing."
Pause. "You need a ride to that Science Fair?"
You cringe remembering that scene.
.
.
.
You close your eyes yet again and sigh yet again, taking in the car smell; it's a perfume you don't even recognize, or maybe you just refuse to think about it.
(Besides, you're friends.)
He doesn't bother asking you anything, so you ask, "What are you afraid of?" as some totally random question that you know is relevant to that stupid organ beating in your chest.
He stops at a red light and looks at you, just for a second, before saying with a smile. "Probably everything you're not."
You don't get nervous. You don't go timid. Hell, you're never even scared.
But you wordlessly grip the thin tee fabric against his shoulder, and he lets you, because god forbid if you lose the boy next to you, you're screwed.
(He'll be to, but you'd never guess that.)
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this is terrible but it was like 3am and written in a little over an hour so
also to those who read 'RED': i might be deleting it :/ i've got the story posted on both wattpad and tumblr, so hopefully that doesn't disappoint :)