I feel like I should apologize for this.
Yes, it is a high school AU. The main pairing is Skwisgaar/Toki by far, but there are other ones that I will not specify because they are either surprises or spoilers, depending on how you look at it. The rating will remain at a T, and it will follow all the conventions of your average high school AU, so without further ado, I present to you (the first chapter of) Attending Fuckface Academy.
Toki Wartooth had been alive for sixteen years, one month, one week, and five days, but he would argue that his life did not truly begin until a lazy Sunday afternoon. He had been alive, yes, but he had not been living, or at least had no will to do so. He was a supine teenage boy who wore his hair too long, irking his parents, and who dreamed vaguely of escaping from the suburbs of Florida. He skated and sweated, skinned knees pouring out of ripped jeans, hot sun burning the top of his head and humid air sticking to his skin—not a life worth giving a hundred percent to living, not quite. He hung out with an equally ragtag group of friends, but—he was restless, listless as times, ready to jump out of his own skin. Much like an oppressed princess locked in a looming tower, he was stuck wondering when his life would begin and in a lazy Sunday afternoon he found his answer, even if he had not known it yet.
It had been Murderface who announced the band. Fuckface Academy was rumored to be the next Nirvana or the next TAD amongst the local scene, depending on how obscure you liked your grunge, and they were apparently totally brutal, despite not being a metal band—which had been the first thing Nathan had complained about. Regardless, Murderface burst through the door with excitement exuding off of him, getting Toki amped up in the process. Nathan and Pickles were immune to Murderface's contagious emotional states, as Nathan had the tendency of being apathetic to everything and Pickles of being too high to really care, and did not react to Murderface in any noticeable manner. Nonetheless, Nathan heard the word "grunge", looked up from the magazine he'd been reading prior to Murderface's entrance, and said, "Grunge? Not metal or brutal. So, not worth my time."
"They are called," Murderface said, hands moving up and down with overdramatic emphasis that made a rather stoned Pickles snort hard, "Fucking Fuckface Academy. Tell me that that'sch not brutal as schit. It'sch fucking brutal asch pisch, that'sch what it isch. Pisch, Nathan. Pisch!"
"Yeah, the name's pretty brutal, I wasn't disagreeing with that," Nathan said, "but grunge?"
Murderface continued to babble, ignoring Nathan's protests. "Plusch, Dick knowsch a guy that could get usch in for free," he went on, still accompanying his words with the hand motions—hands tilted on their sides, thumbs sticking straight up, slicing through the air slowly up and down. He looked ridiculous: his hair was frizzy from the high humidity and he was wheezing, out of breath and damp with sweat from the act of running up the stairs and bursting through the door. Pickles couldn't stop giggling every time he looked at Murderface, a calamity he fell victim to often while intoxicated.
Murderface appeared to be quite keen on this band, so Toki leapt in in defense of his friend. "Sounds cool to Toki," he said, inhaling some of the joint Pickles had just passed him. He wasn't even buzzed yet, but was bored, and Pickles always had the best weed. His brother dealt it and Pickles stole it; such was life.
"When's the show?" Pickles asked, drawing out the oin show. Toki wasn't sure if it was because he was stoned or because of his accent, as Pickles and his family were originally from Wisconsin, but he laughed anyway.
"Nescht weekend," Murderface said. "And. We. Are. Going." He punctuated each word with a dramatic slamming of his hands in midair. Toki tried to pass the joint back to Pickles, but Pickles was convulsing with laughter in a way that reminded Toki of a dog having a seizure, so he instead placed it on the tray beside Pickles's thigh and patted the ground to let Pickles know it was there.
"I mean I guess we can go," Nathan said, sighing and blowing a piece of his hair away from his face. "There're no metal bands in town or anything."
"I don't know if I can," Toki said, frowning. He didn't have anything to do, as always, but his parents liked to block the majority of his attempts to escape the house. Even when he had done all of his chores for the next month in a few days like he did when he really wanted something, his parents would still gaze at him in a way that would make him feel all of two feet tall. He would know that this gaze meant no. He would spend the rest of the day in misery, nursing his broken hope, and he really did not want to experience that feeling again. If he had to turn down a social invitation, oh well; there would always be another one and he would rather feel lonely by choice instead of lonely by force.
"I'll have my mom talk to yours or whatever." This was not a sentence that needed any particularly tragic infliction, but Nathan still applied some in a way that would be more apt if he were describing a grueling, Herculean task. Pickles doubled over in wheezy laughter but was largely ignored otherwise. He passed the joint back to Toki as he wiped tears from his eyes and muttered "Oh, Nathan" over and over again under his breath.
"Aweschome!" Murderface looked as if he was going to jump in celebration; however, Murderface was the type of person who didn't care for excessive physical movement, so he instead took a seat in Nathan's computer chair.
It was in Nathan's room that they had been sitting. Nathan's parents were the most relaxed of the group's and let Nathan listen to death metal on maximum volume while Pickles passed a blunt back and forth between himself and Toki, though they were kind enough to smoke it out the bedroom window. Nathan lived between two sets of frat boy types and neither party minded the music or marijuana, which was pretty cool. Nathan's parents also had a soothing effect on Toki's, and his was the only house he was allowed to frequent. Toki was okay with that, as Pickles's home was filled with drunken shouting most of the time and Murderface's grandparents were downright frightening. He preferred the familiar comfort of Nathan's solitary two-story house with the fenced-in backyard and the sounds of a neighborhood—a lawnmower purring, birds chirping, children playing—leaking in through the window. A benevolent atmosphere possessed Nathan's room despite the walls painted gray and cluttered with intimidating death metal posters that stared down, brutal musicians begging to be fucked with. Toki was sitting on the floor near the computer chair, under the windowsill on its right side, with Pickles sitting to Toki's left. Pickles was leaning against the wall with top of his head just underneath the windowsill, his dreadlocks sticking out at odd angles. Nathan was on his bed, the motorcycle magazine he'd been reading when Murderface came in lying discarded at his feet. He had his hands and arms draped over his knees, his black nail polish accentuated by the drab lighting in his room (even with the window open), and was wearing his reading glasses low on his nose.
There was a momentary lapse in conversation.
Nathan picked his magazine up once more and reclined on the bed with his head on the headboard and back nestled into the pillows. Nathan's bed set was custom-ordered, black with an anarchy symbol sprawled over the comforter and pentagrams displayed proudly on the pillows, though he employed standard red sheets beneath them. Nathan's bed was huge, and though it was pushed into a corner between two walls, it took up the majority of space in the room. Toki found himself in envious awe of Nathan's bed, even more so when he was stoned—between the worn-in comfort of the mattress and the brutal bed set, he wished he could have something as personalized in his own room. Lacking inhibitions, he stared at the way the comforter hung over the side with his mouth slightly open, eyes wide.
A halfhearted breeze coasted through the window, causing the curtains to pulsate forward. Pickles cursed as a curtain hit the back of his head and jumped forward with a yelp; Toki, momentarily distracted from the amazing bed, laughed. Pickles rubbed the back of his head as if the curtain (which had now returned to its place in front of the window) had seriously hurt him and sent Toki a self-deprecating grin that was more in the eyes than in the mouth. Toki returned the expression but broke it when Pickles went to roll another joint and instead he returned to his silent admiration of Nathan's bed.
Murderface had used the lull in conversation to swivel around on the computer chair and begin using Nathan's computer. The soft pattering of heavy fingers skirting over a keyboard joined the typical noises of Nathan's suburban neighborhood. Sundays were like this: without effort, sitting in mutual silence with one another, enjoying their respective activities together without infringing on the others. Toki smiled to himself, letting his thoughts bubble up in his throat and allowing his tongue to push the words forward.
"I think that Sunday is my favorite day," Toki said. He felt very warm—either because of the weather or because of the drugs, he couldn't tell—but cozy.
"Why's that, Toki?" Nathan asked. He licked his index finger and flipped the page of his magazine, staring down his nose at the page. He did not take his eyes from it as he asked the question.
Toki furrowed his brow. He was unable to articulate the precise way in which Sunday was his favorite, could not adequately bottle up the complacency deep in his chest in words, and thus settled for a mere, "I like it."
"Good for you," Nathan said. He turned another page in his magazine.
"Yeah, good for you," Pickles said, nodding his head up and down with a joint trapped between his lips. He pulled it out, examined it briefly, and then set it down on the tray.
"Thanks guys," Toki sighed. Nobody moved to continue the conversation, so Toki took it upon himself. "I think I would like it more, maybe, if it wasn't for going to church. Maybe Sundays would be my double favorites then."
"Church isch gay," Murderface stated. He swiveled around on his chair, planted his feet on the ground, and crossed his arms over his ample belly. His shirt had ridden up, exposing an expanse of doughy, hairy flesh that Pickles was staring in horror at with his mouth open and head tilted.
"It isn't that bad," Toki said, staring down at his chest sadly. He was sitting with his legs spread straight in front of him, slightly parted, and his hands by his thighs, so he had a good vantage to observe his outfit. He was still in his church clothes: khakis, ugly brown shoes, and a pastel-striped polo shirt. Toki did not find church clothes to be anything as much as he did pathetically depressing. The pastel colors reminded him of pills, and not the fun kind, while the khakis and shoes reminded him of old people. He could not come up with any particular reason why church wasn't bad, though he could come up with many why it was, so he let the sentence hang in the air. He accepted the joint when Pickles picked it up and passed it to him with a look that clearly said you need this. He took a hit.
"No, dood," Pickles said as he patted Toki's arm with exaggerated sympathy sketched in every corner of his face, "it's pretty bad."
"Yeah, church sucks," Nathan added. "When I was a kid my parents would make me go on, like, Christmas and Easter and shit. Now they're just like, whatever, and I can stay home."
Toki sighed. "I wish my parents would just be like, whatever." The adamancy that his parents forced him to attend church with was frightening, but understandable. His father had relocated from Norway to America with the expansion of his religion, and Toki understood that it was important to his parents. He just wanted his parents to understand that church wasn't important to him. He didn't have words to describe what he was, but he believed in nothing, that life was meaningless and the only purpose—if you could even call it that—was destruction. He occasionally entertained the notion that the Norse myths of ancient were true but overall, he didn't believe.
"Me too, dood," Pickles said slowly, heaviness in his voice indicative that he thought of this as a great revelation, "me too."
"I don't know, man," Murderface said; he was still sitting with his arms over his belly and legs spread wide open. "I think church isch for fagsch. My grandparentsch never made me do that schit." He wore a smug grin. Toki would normally feel slight annoyance tugging at his midsection when Murderface bragged, but he had to admit that not being forced to go to church was something to brag about.
"Lucky you." Nathan shrugged.
"Yeah," Murderface said, drawing the word out and narrowing his eyes, "lucky me."
"Is that supposed to mean something?" Nathan finally looked up from his magazine. He turned his head to give Murderface a glare that made Toki quibble.
"Nope," Murderface replied. He waved his hand in the air and kicked off with his foot. He spun in the chair for a while, kicking off with his foot every time he completed a circle, until he slowed and turned so that his body was facing the computer once more. Toki stared at Murderface, mesmerized by this action.
"Thought so," Nathan muttered. He returned to his magazine.
Toki turned his head to attempt to see what Murderface was doing on the computer but had no such luck, the awkward angle his body was at and Murderface's general hugeness blocking him. Murderface was typing hard, however, and this caught Toki's interest. "What are you doing, Murderface?" he asked. Pickles passed the joint again and Toki reached out his arm to take it, not turning his head.
"Googling Fuckface Academy, that'sch what'sch I'm doing," Murderface responded. He rolled backwards at an angle so Toki could see the screen, which was just the Google search results page that he couldn't even read. Toki got up and straightened his khakis out. He walked over to the computer on Murderface's right side and grabbed the mouse. The results that came up were a MySpace page for the band at the top, followed by a Facebook page. Below that were things that were more collections of words than actual websites.
Toki opened the MySpace page. The profile was elementary, standard black and gray with red accents. There was a picture of the band—they looked like typical grunge musicians, four guys in stonewashed genes and oversized shirts with various eccentric hairstyles—that was not noteworthy in any way. They had a few songs up with names like "Fuck Love, Let's Fuck" and "Bite Me Baby" but Nathan's speakers were blown from listening to death metal at maximum volume so Toki couldn't play them. The songs had an average of five hundred plays each—one called "Superhuman" had over a thousand, whereas a cover of The Pixies's "Where Is My Mind" only had a hundred and forty-nine—which seemed unremarkable yet not pathetic. The MySpace page gave Toki the information that they were a local band from one town over, had been playing together for six months, and drew their inspiration from the likes of the typical grunge band inspirations: Nirvana, The Pixies, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, so on and so forth.
He traversed to the Facebook page next, which was more of the same. He saw that they had played a list of shows at various taverns, bars, and festivals, nothing too special but nothing too pitiful, a respectable list overall. Toki did not really know how to work Facebook—he was forbidden to even have a computer—and grew tired of the site quickly. Satisfied with the information of what Murderface had been up to and with his newfound knowledge of Fuckface Academy he backed up, letting Murderface slide back in front of the desk, and sat back down by the windowsill. He denied the joint when Pickles offered it this time; he was high enough for now.
"Doesch anybody have headphonesch?" Murderface asked from the computer. Toki could see that he was back on the band's MySpace page, with the help of his and Murderface's different sitting arrangements.
"No," Toki said. He was not allowed to have anything that would require headphones.
"Sorry, busted mine," Nathan grunted from the bed. He had abandoned his magazine and was texting, eyes narrowed at the screen, thumbs moving sluggishly.
Pickles did not bother to respond, as he had slumped into a stupor. His lips were parted and his eyes unfocused, the last joint burning between his fingers. Toki took it from his hands and extinguished it before setting it on the tray, seeing that Pickles was high enough for now, also. Nathan wasn't one for marijuana, preferring hard liquor; Murderface was the same way, though he went through week-long, whiny cycles of trying to get clean that were ultimately useless.
"Dammit," Murderface cursed. "I juscht want to know if thesche guysch are good." Toki watched him close the window. Nathan's computer background, a collage of metal bands accompanied by their illegible logos, replaced it.
"You can look up shitty grunge music on your own time," Nathan said. He sighed as his phone buzzed and played the opening twenty seconds to Cannibal Corpse's Hammer Smashed Face before picking it up like it weighed a hundred pounds and hated him. He made dramatic noises of varying levels of loudness as he texted and flung the phone to the foot of the bed when he was finished.
Murderface rose from the computer and stretched, once again exposing his belly. He ignored Nathan's comment of "You need a longer shirt, seriously" and walked around the room aimlessly, heavy combat boots making hard noises on the wooden floor. He stopped and tittered at miscellaneous things in Nathan's room: the door to his closet, halfway open and exposing a row of shirts in muted colors, a poster with peeling corners, a lamp in the corner. He left the room at one point, announcing that he was going to get food. Toki listened to his footsteps on the stairs, thinking vaguely of how they were like a monster's and scaring himself a little with the thought that Murderface was a monster in disguise.
Nathan's phone buzzed and rang and once again he texted in his overdramatic manner. Toki thought briefly of asking what was wrong but decided against it. Pickles was beginning to wake from his stupor, limbs twitching and eyes snapping back to focus. Toki ran a hand through his hair and felt thankful that he had at least took it out of the braid that his mother forced upon him when they went to church on the walk to Nathan's house. His hair had loose waves in it from the braid, but the guys didn't care to call him out on it; Toki doubted that they even noticed. Toki himself didn't mind the braid, especially in the heat, but he knew the guys would; Murderface would probably declare it gay if he knew. Or perhaps that wouldn't mean anything, as Murderface declared everything gay. Toki was beginning to confuse himself and took his hand away from his hair, clearing his head of the thoughts.
Murderface returned with his arms full of junk food. Pickles shot up, beaming; Toki and Nathan followed considerably more slowly. Pickles grabbed a box of oatmeal cream pies; Toki went for a share size bag of M&M's and a box of milk duds; Nathan ripped a bag of chips, plain Lays, from Murderface's arms. Murderface dumped the remaining food in the middle of the room and selected a Snickers bar for himself, unwrapping it and taking a huge bite, chewing loudly. He sat down by the pile of food. The combination of the Explosions' love of junk food and Halloween on the horizon proved to be a wonderful thing to a group of bored teenage boys, half of them suffering from the munchies and the other half possessing huge appetites regardless.
Pickles popped an oatmeal cream pie in his mouth full and spoke through the mess of cream and pie. "Dood. This is great."
"I love candy," Toki said, nodding his head. His mouth was full of M he was dumping them straight into his open mouth, shaking the bag with vigor.
"I love food," Pickles responded. He swallowed the oatmeal cream pie and went on to opening another. "I want to marry the metaphysical entity of food. Is that legal? That should be legal."
"Petition it," Nathan suggested. He was resting on the bed and texting again, the bag of chips unopened by his side and face knitted up in concentration.
Murderface snorted and reached forward to grab a bag of Doritos. "Ah, the schtupid schit people schay when they're high. That'sch why I don't schmoke."
"You don't smoke 'cause your grandma would kick your ass if you did," Nathan said, looking smug when Toki and Pickles both laughed at this. His phone buzzed again; he groaned loudly and threw it across his bed, not even bothering to look to see whoever texted him whatever. He proceeded to open his chips with a look on his face like he just found God.
"Hey!" Murderface shouted, scowling and spewing Dorito crumbs everywhere. Toki, repulsed, slowed his chewing of the M&M's down.
The four of them sat in not-silence—they were all noisy eaters, happily clamping and smacking and sighing with the bliss of junk food—as they ate. In contrast to the M&M's, which Toki had shoveled in his mouth greedily, pushing the candy to the sides of his cheeks and chewing fast, Toki ate the Milk Duds one by one. Some he sucked the chocolate off before popping them on his tongue, others he plopped right in. The chocolate melted on his fingers and he paused every ten or so Milk Duds to lick it off and then wipe his fingers on the wall behind him. It wasn't exactly sanitary, but Toki couldn't afford to ruin his church clothes. Pickles ate the whole box of oatmeal cream pies and relaxed, hands on his stomach and licking his lips. Murderface gnawed his way through the Doritos as Nathan ate his chips slowly, examining each individual chip before bringing it to his mouth and indulging.
They did not finish the pile of junk food, nor had they expected to. It was a little after one in the afternoon, sun, temperature and humidity high. The children that had been shrieking in the streets had retreated inside for lunch, afternoon television, and naps; the same could be said for the adults who didn't have yard work to do or cars to wash. Toki was beginning to slip into a somnolent state, belly full of candy and eyelids drooping. He would've been happy to sleep right here, underneath the windowsill in Nathan's bedroom, for a few hours. He did sometimes take naps when he came over—he wasn't allowed to take them at home—and had decided that today would be a good day for a nap when Pickles stood up.
Pickles wiped crumbs from his shirt and shorts before speaking. "Are we gonna get lunch?"
"Lunch?" Nathan asked, perking up. His phone had gone off five times since he'd thrown it to the edge of the bed, but he'd been doing a good job of ignoring it in favor of his chips. The promise of more food trumped any food he was currently eating.
"Yeah, lunch. We gonna eat it or what?" Pickles had now moved on to straightening his dreads. He'd dreaded his hair recently, a decision he made while drunk and high off some mushrooms that Murderface had wanted to experiment with. Pickles had a different smell now, mustier, and he had admitted before that his mother was forcing him to use a special dreadlock shampoo.
"I mean, I guess we can." Nathan shrugged and put his chips and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. He slid his reading glasses down his nose, opening the lone drawer and depositing them inside. "Do you want to go to a restaurant or eat inside or what? My parents aren't home so my mom can't cook for us."
Murderface's contribution to the conversation was an exclamation of "Taco Bell!" followed by a spray of crumbs. Pickles laughed before making a repulsed face, stretching in the middle of the room. Murderface clambered to get up, discarding his bag of chips, swallowing the rest of his food, and moving closer to the door.
"Taco Bell fucking sucks," Nathan said.
"I agree, dood," Pickles added, shooting Murderface a look. Murderface sneered back. He was still gravitating towards the door, obviously trying to get the other three to follow him.
"I want to go to, like. Fucking Dimmu Burger," Nathan said. He sat up on his bed, one hand bracing the edge of the mattress.
"Dimmu Burger would be good, yeah," Pickles said. With this confirmation, Nathan got all the way up and stretched.
"Dimmu Burger it is. Toki, you coming with?" Pickles yawned and rotated his body around to look at Toki, eyes half-lidded. This was how these types of things usually went down: Nathan and Pickles made decisions; Murderface argued with them; Toki went along with whatever they wanted to do. It tended to be for the best; Toki tended to only want to go to the skate park and Murderface to the beach, as he was convinced that this was the location he had the best chance of getting laid at. While Toki was occasionally indulged in the skate park—Nathan, Murderface, and Pickles would get drunk with the other teenagers toward the back while Toki would skateboard by himself, content to do so—everybody hated the beach. Toki didn't like wearing any less clothing than he usually did, Nathan didn't like going outside, and Pickles was very Irish.
"Yeah," Toki sighed. He got up off the floor. Food would make him less sleepy.
Murderface, still lingering close to the doorway, pulled his phone from his pocket. "Hey, I'm gonna tescht Dick—"
"No you're not," Nathan growled. He snatched Murderface's phone and pocketed it before walking over to his bed and grabbing his own phone with a moan, treating it like a clingy girlfriend he couldn't get rid of.
"You guysch always invite Charlesch to schit!" Murderface whined. He took half-steps towards Nathan, reaching out his arm halfway, bemoaning the loss of his phone. Murderface had a shit phone, three years old with a slide-out QWERTY keyboard crusted with crumbs, but he was in love with the thing.
"That's different," Pickles said. He crossed his arms. Pickles was shorter than Murderface—Pickles was just short—but with his head lowered to his chest like that, he seemed to tower above him. "We all like Charles. Nobody likes Dick."
Murderface snorted, anger forgotten in lieu of Pickles's poor choice of phrasing. Pickles uncrossed his arms and smiled. Nathan reached in the pocket of his jeans and handed Murderface back his phone with a testy look. Murderface took his phone, looked at it once sadly, and then slid it into to the pocket of his shorts.
"I'm driving," Nathan announced, though nobody was about to protest it. Nathan, a year older due to his failure of the third grade, was the only licensed driver in the group. Pickles was sixteen, his birthday in the early fall, but hadn't bothered to even get his permit since everybody he hung around had their licenses; Murderface was still fifteen, his birthday in December, but he'd put off getting his permit until June; Toki wasn't allowed to drive. Nathan had a four-door truck, an old, rusted thing that was on its last limb, but it fit them all and was good enough to drive them from his house to Dimmu Burger. They exited Nathan's room single-file, Nathan heading the way with Pickles stumbling behind him, then Murderface, then Toki. They walked down the stairs this way and clustered together more at the bottom. Pickles kept tripping over his feet and laughing at it, which made Toki laugh in turn. Nathan chuckled a few times; Murderface returned to pouting. Nathan grabbed the keys by the door in the kitchen and off they were.
Pickles rode shotgun like always. Toki sat behind the driver's seat with Murderface on the other side of the truck. The drive to the good Dimmu Burger, not the one with the wonky fries and cashiers who gave them the evil-eye when they walked in stoned, took about ten minutes. Toki passed the time by staring out the window, which was rolled down like all the others, wind whistling in his ears. Nathan was a fast driver, though a surprisingly competent one and everything seemed to blur past. It did not help that Toki was stoned, nor did it help that this part of Florida looked exactly the same no matter where you went: buildings low and painted in happy colors, assorted trees dotting the edge of the road, the roads wide, in need of a good pave, and sweltering in the heat. Nathan blasted death metal. The best thing about his truck was that he had replaced the speakers with top-of-the-line, expensive models and had installed a CD player. They barely hit any lights and traffic was typical for a Sunday afternoon, slow and scarce. Nathan flipped the bird at somebody that cut him off and his phone buzzed three times in five minutes before laying silent, but it was otherwise an uneventful drive. Nobody could talk over the music, but Pickles was finding things to giggle at in the front seat and Murderface was either texting or on the internet with his phone.
Nathan pulled into the parking lot of Dimmu Burger and waited out the drum solo on the song that was playing—Toki didn't particularly care for it, but it was one of Nathan's favorites—before turning the car off. They spilled out of the car and Pickles fell, tripping while he tried to climb down. Murderface shook with laughter while Pickles let out a string of curses. He'd fallen on all fours and rubbed alternatively at the heel of his hands and scraped knees as they walked into the Dimmu Burger. Nathan gave him a single sympathetic look and Pickles suffered in silence. Falling when getting out of the trunk was something Pickles did with regularity, especially when intoxicated: the truck was high off the ground, Pickles was not.
Dimmu Burger was full. There were a cluster of ten-to-twelve-year-old boys in green and white soccer uniforms in one corner, their moms chatting away over salads and diet sodas, and a couple of teenagers Toki didn't know in another. People of various kinds were scattered throughout the tables otherwise. They approached the counter, where a bored-looking cashier stood, a button declaring that they'd just installed a happy hour for all beverages—milkshakes included!—shining on her lapel. Nathan ordered first, followed by Pickles, then Murderface, and lastly Toki, who ordered chicken nuggets instead of burgers like the other guys had gotten. Toki wasn't allowed to have money on him, and it was Pickles's turn to pay for his expenses. Toki felt a tug of guilt in his gut as he watched Pickles hand over the bills, but nobody spoke about the money thing to Toki. He assumed they had worked out a schedule between them early on in the friendship after Toki kept not eating whenever they were out together, as even Murderface would pay for him on occasion.
They sat at a table by a window facing the front of the building, Toki sledged between the wall and Murderface. Toki wanted to pick at his chicken nuggets drowsily, taking dainty bites and resting his elbow on the table with his head cradled in his hand, but his hunger got the best of him. Toki ate nugget after nugget until they were gone and then moved onto his fries, sucking down his soda. When he finished his food he reached across and plucked some of Murderface's fries, plopping them into his mouth with a shit-eating grin.
"Lay off!" Murderface screeched. He pulled his fries to his other side of his food. Pickles cracked up; Nathan laughed a little. Pickles was done with his food, finishing before even Toki, but Nathan was a slow eater, only halfway through his burger.
"Like you really fucking need them," Nathan said. In the corner, the gaggle of soccer moms sent a collective glare at Nathan. He flipped them off; their jaws dropped in unison.
Nathan's phone, which had been resting on the table by his food, buzzed not once, but three times in a row. Nathan groaned and picked it up and looked at his new messages before setting them back down again. He let out a "Jesus fucking Christ" under his breath before bringing his burger to his mouth again and taking a huge bite.
"Who keeps texting you?" Pickles asked, looking at the phone without trust. He had been holding his own phone in one hand, his elbow up on the table and head resting in his other hand, scrolling through something with his thumb on the screen. Pickles had the most recent iPhone, a gift from his brother for his sixteenth birthday, surely bought with drug money. Pickles was convinced that Seth had an ulterior motive behind the gift but he hadn't been able to figure out what it was yet. In the meantime, he was happy to use it.
"Fucking Charles and Abigail," Nathan muttered between bites of hamburger. The food obscured his expression for the most part, so Toki couldn't tell why this fact was so bothersome to him. Toki knew Charles well, since Charles was Nathan's old friend from before he failed the third grade, but he didn't know Abigail, not really. Nathan didn't bring her to group outings, only hanging out with her in the foursome of Nathan, Charles, Pickles, and Abigail. Toki knew there was some drama going on between the four of them, could tell by the way Pickles's mouth thinned when Abigail was bought up and the insane amounts of texting that had been occurring recently, but Toki was too polite to investigate further, no matter how curious he might have been.
"Neither of them text that much, dood. I would know," Pickles remarked. He pointed at Nathan's phone, which buzzed then again. Pickles leapt in his seat. "Holy shit, I'm magical!"
Nathan ignored the coincidence and shrugged, the burger still between his hands. "I don't know why they've been texting me so much. I fucking hate it, though. I want to end it but they just keep texting me."
"Poor you, with all your friends teschting you," Murderface growled. "I think the phrasche isch 'blowing up your phone'? What a schame." Murderface's comments went unaddressed; he stuffed his face huffily.
"Toki, you're awfully quiet," Pickles said. He appeared to be making a point of not responding to Nathan. He pointed at Toki this time, who did not buzz and start playing the opening 20 seconds of Hammer Smashed Face. Pickles actually seemed relatively disappointed by this fact.
"He gets like this when he's stoned," Nathan explained. He had finished his burger and was onto his fries now. "Depressed and shit."
"I am not depressed," Toki said. "I'm tired." It was true; the food had not woken him up. He knew he would have to return home soon, but he did not want to. He wanted to curl up into a bed and fall asleep for a refreshing afternoon nap, maybe dream a pleasant little dream. He also really wanted to listen to some electronica, but Nathan and Murderface hated it, and it's not like Toki had a way to play his own music.
"Then schleep," Murderface suggested, placing a fry in his mouth.
"Yeah, he's going to sleep in the middle of fucking Dimmu Burger," Nathan said. "What are you, stupid? Don't answer that. We know you are."
"Fuck you," Murderface replied, almost lazily, waving a fry around in the air. He was sitting at an angle, half of his body pressed into the booth while facing the conversation.
"I think I'm going to have to go home after lunch," Toki sighed. He stared down at the table, not wanting to meet the other's eyes. He lifted his head to look at Nathan. "Will you take me home after lunch?"
"You don't want to stay for dinner? It's macaroni and cheese night," Nathan said.
Toki weighed his options. He loved Nathan's mother's cooking, especially her macaroni and cheese, but he had stayed for dinner yesterday. Tomorrow was a school day. He hadn't done his Sunday chores yet. He could escape for a few hours after church, but he knew that his parents would want him home soon, and he didn't want to anger them—especially not if he was going to be attending the Fuckface Academy concert next weekend. Perhaps he would even be able to stay the night at Nathan's if he was good enough this week, would be able to stumble in drunk and high and pass out on the floor with Murderface and Pickles while Nathan would sleep until soberness on the bed. A week from now he could be able to play video games with them on Nathan's ridiculously large flat-screen T.V. in the living room, eating Nathan's mother's cookies, the chocolate chip ones she always made when Nathan's friend stayed over. All if he went home after lunch.
"I can't," Toki said. He wondered what he'd be having for dinner at home. Today was Sunday, so probably some sort of elaborate Norwegian dish that his mother had started preparing after church. Toki's mother was a passable cook and he liked Norwegian food more than he liked American food, but he would still rather be eating with a group of friends, talking loudly and happily instead of sitting in silence. He could only comfort himself with the thought that a week from now, he'd be happy.
"Can I stay for dinner?" Pickles asked. "Fucking love your mom's macaroni and cheese, man." Nathan, mouth full of the last of his fries, grunted in response to this and nodded his head.
"Me too," Murderface said. "I'd love to schtay, but I promisched Dick we'd do schomething later. Scho I'll need you to drop me off at Dick'sch." He put his arms behind his head and stretched in the booth, making smacking noises with his mouth and clearly trying to impress the others with the fact that he'd made plans. The others were not impressed; Dick Knubbler was Murderface's only other friend besides the four of them, and the guy was insane, not really a friend to brag about having. Nonetheless, Murderface arched his eyebrows and gave them a look like he was gracing them with his presence by choosing to hang out with them instead of Dick Knubbler.
"You can drop your own goddamn self off at Dick's," Nathan said.
Murderface sneered. "I'll have him pick me up, then," he said, reaching out to grab his phone and text Knubbler.
Nathan was the last to finish his food and when he did they all got up to throw the wrappers away. The other guys kept their drinks but Toki threw his in the bin, knowing his parents would be mad if they saw him with it and not wanting to litter in Nathan's truck. They bustled out of Dimmu Burger, earning evil stares from the soccer moms who were still there for speaking so vulgarly in earshot of their precious children.
"Your kids probably say worse shit when you're not around," Nathan remarked to them as they exited the restaurant. The soccer moms gasped and glared as soccer moms do, turning to their boys, presumably to ask them if they did, indeed, say worse things when their mothers weren't around. Toki looked over his shoulder before walking out the door to see the boys giving sheepish grins at their mothers and at each other.
Toki lived in a neighborhood closer to the north side of town. It was a nice neighborhood but was populated mostly by older, richer folks, the type that paid people to do their lawns perfectly. Toki did all of the yard work himself, every Sunday, and that was what he had to look forward to when he got home: backbreaking labor in the heavy heat for four hours, as it after two o'clock now, before dinner. He spent the ride to his house in sulking silence while Nathan, Pickles, and Murderface engaged themselves in a debate over whether the new or old lead guitarist for some metal band Toki had never heard of was better. Murderface was trying to insist that the old was superior while Nathan and Pickles were on the newer one's side. They were shouting over the music from the band they were shouting about, turned down lower than usual so they could hear each other but still playing loud, throbbing in Toki's head. Pickles was whipping his head back from Murderface to Nathan, dreads bouncing around his shoulders; Murderface was leaning forward in his seat, seatbelt straining against his chest; Nathan's eyes were glued to the road but he was still participating in their debate. If Nathan's phone went off, it was lost in the discord.
Nathan eventually pulled up to Toki's house and put the truck in park against the curve. Both of his parents' cars were in the driveway, leaving no room for Nathan's truck. Toki's house was a standard two-story, painted a muted orange-brown color, windows obscured with curtains on the inside. It was a showy house, decorated with masonry, an exemplary Floridian home. Toki sort of hated it.
He undid his seatbelt and had his hand on the door to the truck when Nathan said, "We'll see you Saturday, yeah?"
"I hope so," Toki said. He opened the door. "Just—just have your mom call mine, okay?"
"'Kay," Nathan said. "See you."
"Bye, Toki," Pickles and Murderface said at the same time. Murderface had to add, "Keep care," and then Pickles had to say, "Make good decisions" with sarcasm in his voice, and Murderface was opening his mouth to say something else when Toki got out of the truck and shut the door. Nathan wasted no time in pulling out, speeding down the road. Toki watched as his truck bounced away, the metal music flowing through the windows disrupting the otherwise quiet of his neighborhood.
He walked up the driveway to his front door and reached into his pocket for the key. He took off his shoes immediately when inside, depositing them in their neat place in line with the rest of his shoes by the doorway. He called out that he was home in Norwegian, hoping somebody heard him and not expecting to get a response. He walked through the sitting room to get to the stairs, and then went up to his room. He changed from his church clothes and folded them neatly in the laundry basket before switching into athletic shorts and a white t-shirt. He pulled his hair up, getting it off his neck in preparation for the heat. He looked at himself in the mirror hanging on his wall before walking back out of his room. He didn't look unusual enough to get in trouble for doing drugs, but his parents were sort of oblivious to that kind of thing anyway, and he'd never got in trouble for it before.
He went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and found his mother standing over the stove. He still thought that his parents looked awkward in American clothing; they had ditched the robes and such when they moved, in order to blend in better. His mother was wearing a long dress with long sleeves, her hair pulled back with a scarf, but she still looked odd and unlike the woman Toki had grown up with. She didn't say anything or even turn her head as Toki got his water, though he wasn't expecting her to. His parents rarely spoke to him because of their vow of silence; his parents rarely paid attention to him because they were his parents.
He figured that his father was in his office since his car was home and that meant he couldn't be at church, and Toki wasn't about to greet him. He went out through the front door, pulling on his ratty old athletic sneakers, and walked around to open the garage. His Sunday chores involved doing the yard work, cleaning out the gutters, and tidying up the garage. He took a swig from his water bottle and set it down on the unused workbench in the garage and then pulled the lawnmower out, starting it up. He'd forgotten his sunglasses and there wasn't a cloud in the sky but he squinted his eyes and suffered through it, knowing he'd get in trouble if he went back in before finishing his chores or getting called for dinner. So he began to mow the yard, going in careful lines, already sweating beneath his clothes. The smell of gasoline was strong, hanging in the air. For October it was hot outside and he knew it wouldn't begin to truly cool down until late November, winter coming full-force (weakly, in comparison to the harsh Norwegian weather he'd been conditioned in) in January.
While he mowed, a mechanical task requiring no thought but to scan the ground to make sure there were no obstacles in his way, he thought. He had homework to do tonight, bookwork for math, questions for history, and a chapter to read for English. It wasn't that much and about the workload he did regularly. He wasn't in any advanced classes and got passing grades in the ones he took. It wasn't that he was unintelligent (though he was generally average) but that he didn't put a lot of effort into school. He didn't care about it, didn't put any thought towards his future or what he wanted to be when he grew up. He was relatively sure that his parents wanted him to join the church, but that wasn't going to happen. He had every intention of moving the fuck out when he turned eighteen, though he didn't know where was going to go. He figured he would get a job and an apartment somewhere, but it wasn't so much the technicalities as getting out of the house, being free. Freedom was what he craved above all, and the desire of it was what he blamed the restless feeling he so often fell victim to on. He was beginning to feel it now, annoyance wrapping around his body at the fact that he was stuck on a Sunday afternoon confined to his chores. It wasn't even the chores, which were standard and harmless compared to the other things his parents had him sometimes do—it was the fact that this was what he spent all of his time doing, working for his parents, even when he was younger. He was older now, stronger, and living in the suburbs, a stark contrast to Norway. He didn't have to lug firewood up hills in skimpy clothes with snow slamming down around him as a skinny eight-year-old, wasn't being pushed into punishment holes, but he still had to do everything for his parents while they did nothing for him with the exception of the womanly duties that his mother performed. Every day was a blur of school and chores, sometimes punishment, sometimes wiggling free to hang out with his friends and he hated it, and this line of thought had bought the itchy feeling underneath his skin back again.
He paused briefly in his mowing to readjust his hair, which had been slipping out of the knot he had tied it in. Growing out his hair was a decision made based on the fact that he liked metal music, but it had the benefit of really pissing off his parents. He didn't know why metal music, long hair, and Satan were all connected. He guessed the church needed a scapegoat for the inevitable corruption of humanity. He, a human, did not feel corrupted by the length of his hair, however; he felt that he looked better with it, liked the way it moved against his back when he walked and how he could windmill at the metal concerts that he sometimes went to. He began to mow again and started to think about the upcoming Fuckface Academy concert. Nathan's mother would probably call his own later in the week, to ensure that they wouldn't forget or change their mind. He had been to concerts several times before with Nathan and the rest, most often death metal bands of varying status, and he knew Nathan's mother would lie about the show that they were seeing. Nathan, though picky about the music he listened to on his own times, didn't care who they saw live as long as they were seeing somebody live. Nathan went to a show practically every weekend, always taking Pickles with him. Murderface and Toki attended more erratically, Toki sometimes not allowed to go and Murderface snobbish about music. Nathan and Pickles would either attend by themselves or with Charles and Abigail, and Toki didn't feel any sort of jealousy about the fact that his friends had other friends, though he knew Murderface did. He and Murderface would hang out together when Nathan and Pickles were off at concerts they couldn't or didn't want to go to, getting drunk at the skate park or sitting in the sun at the beach, Murderface complaining about the fact that girls didn't like him while Toki remained silent. Seeing Fuckface Academy would probably be fun, though Knubbler would most likely be there. Toki didn't care about that if it meant he'd be getting in for free, but Nathan and Pickles might act pissy and Murderface might slip into a more stuck-up mode than usual. Overall, Toki was looking forward to the band, and he allowed himself to imagine standing in the crowd, engulfed by music and moshing. The fantasy diminished the itchy feeling, replacing it with excited anticipation.
He was sticky with sweat and had a headache from the sun when he finished mowing the front yard. He took the lawnmower back in the garage and took another drink of his water, which was, miraculously, still cold. He would have to do the backyard, but first he needed to finish the front yard, doing the things that weren't mowing. There were no trees in the front yard or elsewhere on his property, but the neighbors to his right had a particularly large oak that loved to drop leaves into his yard. He raked those and hummed to himself. When that was finished, he trimmed the hedges around the property that his parents liked so much. He walked out in front of his house to look at the yard, checking to make sure it was immaculate. There were no weeds, no mushrooms sprouting up, the hedges were even, no leaves, and he was satisfied that his parents would be satisfied.
He bought the mower around back to work on the backyard. His backyard was small and fenced in, a grill shoved towards one corner with a smooth wooden deck taking up the majority of the space. He had a nice house he had to admit as he mowed. The backyard was sparsely but tastefully decorated, wicker furniture on the deck and the highlight being a small garden with a fountain. He'd have to tend to the garden, gathering the vegetables and watering the plants, but that he wouldn't mind. The mosquitoes were thick but they weren't a fan of Toki and he only got one bite on the inside of his forearm. They held several parties in their house, mostly church-related gatherings that required Toki to be dressed in his Sunday best and be seen and not heard. There weren't a lot of other teenage members of the church, mostly young couples with small, impressionable children and older people, and the ones that did belong didn't like Toki. The teenagers were an odd bunch, a group of boys who hung around each other and appeared to have been lifted straight from an old sitcom, complete with awkward hairstyles and the habit of referring to each other exclusively by their last names. Like the majority of the population, they didn't speak to Toki. Church socials were lonely.
When he finished mowing he deposited the lawnmower in the garage, took a big gulp of water which was beginning to warm and collected his gardening tools. He checked the clock in the garage—close to four. He would have to work hard and fast to finish before dinnertime. He tended the garden as quickly as possible, straightened up the backyard in a hurry, and scrambled onto the roof to clean the gutters. It hadn't rained in a while, which was both good and bad; the gutters were full of dead leaves and not much else. It was five-thirty by the time he finished his tasks, leaving him just enough time to tidy up and sweep the garage into a presentable state. His headache had grown stronger from a combination of the sun and dehydration and he'd finished his bottle of water, feeling dizzy. He had lost the calming effect of the marijuana during his chores and he felt high-strung, nervous. He kept checking the front yard for mistakes and finding none, then going around to the backyard and again finding none. He fretted in the garage until he saw his mother poke out her head, nod in approval at what she saw, and beckon him to get cleaned up for dinner. He grabbed his empty bottle of water, crumpling it in his fist, and closed down the garage.
He threw the water bottle into the recycling bin and entered his house, taking his shoes off by the door. He wanted badly to take a shower but there wasn't time for that, so he instead washed his face and changed back into his church clothes. He didn't put on his shoes, leaving his feet in socks, but did tie his hair back in a low ponytail. He still felt disgusting and hot from his chores, but he'd deal with that later.
He walked down to the dining room and took his place. Dinner was in front of him, though his parents hadn't sat down yet. There was a glass of water that he drank from thirstily, willing his headache to vanish. His mother appeared, taking her seat, and then his father, taking his.
The food was elaborate and delectable, but Toki always felt uncomfortable when he ate with his parents. They didn't look at him but at their food, taking slow and careful bites. Toki, a fast eater, felt like he had to match them. He learned when he was young that getting stuck at the dinner table with nothing to eat or do was not a pleasant experience, so he ate at a snail's pace, relishing every bite. When he first moved to America the food had made him homesick, but he realized quickly that America was better than Norway in that he didn't live in an abandoned village with no friends other than dolls he'd made himself, and the homesickness had vanished instantly. He still wouldn't call any habitation he shared with his parents home, but it was better than it had been, and Toki was grateful for that.
He did finish his dinner before his parents and spent the rest of his time sipping his water. His headache had not gone away but it had not intensified. He wasn't allowed painkillers at home unless he was very ill, and his parents wouldn't consider a headache ill, so he'd have to wait it out. His father finished his food before his mother, as usual, and he rose, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. Toki knew that after dinner on Sundays his father would investigate his work, and that Toki would have to follow him. If Toki had failed, his punishment would be immediate; if he did not he would be released to his room, where he would do his homework, take a shower, and then go to bed. They left his mother still eating in the dining room and exited through the front door, Toki hastily pulling on his shoes before they went out.
His father walked to the street to take a view of the front yard. Toki stood nervously by his side, biting his lip with his hands thrust in his pockets, scratching at the insides. His father turned to him and nodded, but Toki wouldn't let himself breathe, not yet. They walked around to the backyard, where his father hovered at the garden, inspecting it. Toki had taken all the vegetables in a basket to the kitchen earlier, the only time he was allowed to enter the house when doing Sunday chores, and his father must've seen them already, as he nodded with approval at the garden and at Toki. He craned his neck to look at the gutters and seemed satisfied with those, too. Toki followed him back around into the garage, which also received the seal of approval. Only then did Toki allow himself to breathe out with a thankful exhale, taking his hands from his pocket and wringing his clammy fingers. His father gave him a cold look, but that was not unusual, and Toki hurried back inside the house.
He did his homework before taking a shower, beginning with math. Toki was not the best math student, being better at things requiring creativity, but he wasn't exactly bad. There were fifteen problems involving a lot of calculator work and he finished them in half an hour. History bored him, but he bullshitted his answers and moved on to read the chapter of the book for English, which was also boring. He had an English test coming up, so he read the chapter twice for lack of better things to do, lying on his back in his bed with the book held above his face. It was closer to eight by the time he finished his homework and his headache had lessened, though it had not disappeared completely. He got his backpack ready for the morning and left it by the door of his room when he went to take a shower.
He spent a while in the shower, letting the hot water wash over him and relax his muscles, which ached faintly from the work. He slumped against the wall and let the bathroom steam up, enjoying the feeling of a long shower after a long day. He was sober by now, and saddened by the overall state of his life, but he always became like this when it got later into the night, especially when he was left alone to his thoughts in the shower. He didn't pay it much attention.
When he got out of the shower he wrapped a towel around his midsection and brushed his teeth before walking back to his room. His parents were in bed; he could tell by the utter silence of his house, thicker than usual. He thought about sneaking downstairs to watch television, on mute with the closed captioning on, but decided against it. He was tired, and he had school in the morning, which he would have to get up early for. He went into his room and changed into pajama pants to sleep in, throwing the towel into the laundry hamper. He combed his hair out and tied it back, not wanting to have to bother with it too much in the morning. He had naturally nice hair, straight and relatively without frizz. The girls at school always asked him how he did it, and he would shrug, unconcerned. He used whatever shampoo his mother bought that week and combed it out before he went to bed and when he got up in the morning, and that would always be his answer.
He crawled underneath the comforter and pulled it up to his chest. His bed was in the middle of the room and he slept towards the right side, facing his closet. He developed that habit when he was a kid and scared of monsters, wanting to be able to see inside and ready to fight them in case they appeared. As a teenager, he wasn't scared of monsters—or at least not the ones he knew didn't exist—but this was the most comfortable sleeping position to him now, he guessed from habit.
He closed his eyes and looked for sleep. He found it without too much trouble. He liked sleep, liked dreaming, and tonight he dreamed of unintelligible adventures as usual, the locations of his life distorted as he did things without motive or meaning. He would remember his dreams in the morning but they were never particularly memorable. He didn't dream of fighting, of sex, or of humor, but of going about his average life in skewed, odd ways. Occasionally he would have nightmares, most of them about punishments that'd been inflicted on him over the course of his life, or of being young and helpless in face of greater dangers than himself. These nightmares would always wake him up, the scars on his back throbbing with awareness and memory, but he had no such nightmares tonight.
Sunday came to a close as he slept and dreamt away. It was a boring close, and he wasn't a fan of boring, but he'd take that over punishment from his parents any day of the week, the only guaranteed excitement in his dull life. He still possessed that restless feeling, the one that grabbed ahold of him and wrapped him in it, but he'd grown accustomed to ignoring it. He would tell himself that he could not predict the future and could not change things himself, would just let them play out, happen as they may. He was not a headstrong, determined person, not a believer in shaping your own destiny, nothing as drastic as that. In want of any religious beliefs or strong moral convictions he lived his life in a lazy way, and though sometimes this bugged him, he was overall, content. He had things to look forward to and things to dread: the concert, his parents. He had a life and he lived it, though there was that constant nagging at the back of his head, the base of his skull, begging him for something more.
It had been a good day.