Author's Note: I fully accept my new title as Official Piece of Shit. I know I promised this chapter, like, two months ago. My excuses are school and laziness. I'll try to be more on top of things as I move forward. It won't happen, but I'll try. My motivation is that once I finish this, I have another multi-chapter shindig planned, so that'll be fun. Keep urging me along. Send me angry messages if you have to. They serve as effective incentives. That is all.
By the time Friday rolls around, it's been a long week, to say the least. You're feeling sick after staying up late last night, so when your alarm clock goes off and you find yourself haphazardly strewn across your bed, you kick the irritating machine onto the floor and burrow back under the covers. About fifteen minutes later, Bro enters the room and crosses his arms, staring down at you in disgust. You open one eye only long enough to register his presence.
"Rough night, huh?" he asks in a deadpan tone. You grunt. "Told you," is his response. He gives you no further warning before gripping both of your wrists and pulling you unceremoniously from the mattress. Your legs plop onto the floor and drag behind you as he lugs you into the kitchen. You've still got one foot in the dream world, so your head lolls forward lazily as Bro shuffles his way into the tiled room, supporting your dead weight. When you reach the marble island, he drops your wrist, causing your elbows to crack against the hard tile. You inhale sharply and sit up too suddenly, causing your head to spin. Bro lifts from under your arms and hoists you into a chair. After very nearly faceplanting into a bowl of Cheerios he sets before you, you eat with slow, mechanical motions. When you finish, you push the meal aside and force yourself to stand and shamble into your bedroom. Bro sighs empathetically, moving to take your dishes.
You put minimal effort into getting dressed, hoping that if you can only survive today, the weekend will be relaxing. Shrugging on a grey hoodie, cargo shorts, and your backpack, you make sure to pack a notebook to doodle in during class. As you depart, you glance at the digital time display on your overturned alarm clock. It's no surprise that you're running rather late. Normally you would make some effort to pedal quicker than usual, but this morning, you can find neither the strength nor the initiative.
Life is a cloud of haze blowing slowly by until you reach your first period seat, which is located in the very back of your computer programming classroom. The class work is simple, and you speed through it, inspired by your interest in the topic. This leaves you time toward the end of class to flip open your notebook and grab and pen. An empty page begs for attention. Ink touches paper, and when you check the clock and five minutes have passed, your notebook contains a page and a half of new material. Smiling, you continue working until the bell rings obnoxiously.
Throughout the day, you add to your creations, making changes and drawing up new pieces. Lunch is spent in pursuit of this new project, as is the majority of last period. You leap from your seat and book it when you're dismissed from your final class. Feferi is chatting loudly with Eridan directly in front of your locker, so you mindlessly push him aside and fling open the metal door. There is the sound of Eridan spitting insults in your direction while Feferi laughs enthusiastically, but you're a man with a mission.
You decide to take a pit stop at home to drop off most of the stuff in your backpack. You then hop right back on your bicycle with only your notebook tucked into the messenger bag draped across the handlebars. Minutes later, you are screeching to a halt on the uneven pavement of John's street, grabbing the notebook, and vaulting onto the sidewalk. As you approach onto the lawn, you spy your friend through his window, which is propped open to accommodate the refreshing spring breeze. You bite your lip to hold back a grin. After a moment of contemplation, you search around on the ground for a coarse stone of a decent size. You weigh it in your hand, then lob it toward the window. It bounces off the upper portion of the glass that is lifted up over itself, making a nice, clean sound.
John spins, surprised, and steps to the window. As he bends at the waist and grips the windowsill to peer through the screen, you clear your throat. "A poem," you announce stridently, making sure that your voice carries. John raises the screen and leans his head curiously forward. Your fingers tap nervously on the back cover of the notebook. When you look down, you realize you haven't flipped to the right page yet. You hurry to do so, and then look anxiously back up at John to insure you still have his attention. One arm is crossed across the windowsill, while the other is propped up so he can rest his cheek on his palm. Your stomach feels like it's going to gnaw its way out of your abdomen. Nevertheless, you cough once more and begin to read him your poems.
There are 12 in all, each a different flavor from the next. The first is short and sweet, where the second is deep and meaningful. The third is fast-paced and full of expectation while the fourth reads like a bated breath. Around the sixth poem, after watching the whole affair blankly, John shuts the screen. When you begin the seventh, he closes the window. You know he can still hear you, so you step closer to the house and speak loudly and with purpose. Eventually you sense he has left his room. You keep reciting your work in the light, wistful April air, until you reach the very last line of the very last poem. He has not heard most of it, but that doesn't seem to much matter anymore.
When you mount your bicycle for the final time that day, you pedal with a certain anticipation for the future. It took you some time to regain your footing after last night's emotional stumble, but now you stand as tall and confident as you stood on Day 1.