Tumble (original work)

(Rated teen for language, mentions of drug and alcohol use, and LGBT2SQIA+ themes)

Prompt: "Can you feel this?"

"Babs? Babe?" my voice echoes strangely, and I laugh. Above us, the party continues, the sky and trees lit up by bonfires and car headlights, music provided by everyone tuning to the same radio station and cranking the volume. It's shit for the environment, and wastes gas, but no one really gives a flying fuck as long as we are having fun.

"Owwww," I hear from behind me. "What the fuck?"

"We fell," I giggle, "ass over tea kettle- all the way down to the beach."

"Shiiiiiiiiiiiit," she croons, "that's a long fall… Are we dead?"

"God, you are high, clearly we are not dead," I gesture to the two of us, sprawled in sandy dunes among litter and tufts of long grass and dried out old seaweed.

"Okay, but HOW are we not dead?" She points up to the party, the flickers of light and shadows making it seem like some kind of hedonistic dark mass and not just a few dozen drunk and stoned teenagers killing time on a summer night.

"Drunken luck?" I posit, crawling around awkwardly in an attempt to regain my feet.

"Works for you, but I haven't had a drop," she bitches.

"Oh please, you are high as balls- don't pretend that doesn't count for 'drunken luck'." It's an old argument, one we've had dozens of times. We've been friends for years, and we both started to run a little wild once we hit our teens. I don't mind running wild with her. She makes it an adventure. She makes me not care that there's no destination. She makes me forget that mostly, we are running AWAY from shit we don't want to deal with.

Most people don't get why we are friends. They don't see past the party girls- the brunette with the short spiky hair and the smart mouth and the shockingly high alcohol tolerance, and the pretty blonde with the bad attitude and skimpy clothes and the ever present stash of pills and things you can smoke.

Most people see us bicker and spat and shake their heads in confusion. They don't see the way we slip out of our shoes and walk home together- heads buzzing with intoxicants, ears ringing from too loud music, worries muted by careful application of happy-making chemicals- our heads tipped back, staring at the stars and the clouds and the moon and spinning tales of how we will escape this life together someday. We can almost believe that, too… when we are alone in the night walking back from a party we probably should never have been at in the first place.

Most people see us as broken- and I guess we are- but we are broken in beautiful, poetic ways that seem tragic and romantic and brave and strong. We charge into our issues and wreak havoc. Mischief and mayhem- we trade nicknames back and forth based on our moods. We balance each other out. We know each other on a soul deep level.

We've done this before.

This whole 'grow up together and venture into the world' thing.

We'll do it again.

We never make it out of it alive- but we sure as fuck live the hell out of it when we can.

"Fuck that party," she announces suddenly. "I'm not climbing up that shit just to get pawed at by the same losers that paw at me every weekend." She's the pretty one. I rarely have that problem. I'm more likely to get into some kind of fight and end up with frozen peas on my face and laughing about it.

"I guess we're taking a walk along the beach," I laugh and between us we manage to help each other to standing.

"Which way's the road?" she asks me and I shrug. "Follow the moon, it is then," she grabs my hand.

Her laughter tumbles through my soul, each sound lighting up some ancient memory.

We've done this before.

This whole 'falling in love' thing.

We'll do it again.

I turn to her and smile. Mischief.

She grins, her eyes chaotic and full of life. Mayhem.

"Can you feel this?" she asks, tracing her thumb over the crescent moon tattoo on my wrist.

"Of course," I laugh, "can you feel this?" I place her hand over my heart.

She smiles. "I feel it all. I feel everything."

"Race you to the moon?" I challenge, and the words echo back through lifetimes of adventures.

"Race you to the grave," she answers, her words are bold and familiar and I feel them resonate in my core.

We've done this before.

We'll do it again.

Together.

Always.

Mischief and Mayhem.