Hey, hey, hey, it'd been a hell of a night, and Abe was feeling just fine. Nothing wacky and wild, just chill times and partaking in the dankest, kindest leaf with some of his good bros; soaking up all the pain of summer being over. One last year of jamborees before everyone scattered to the sixty-nine winds.
Things had been winding down, and then some dipshit had put Sharknado on and promptly fallen asleep five minutes into the film, and no one still conscious had given enough of a shit to prevent that travesty from happening, so they'd just, watched Sharknado, like assholes.
Abe had a lot of opinions about bad movies, which you could find on his YouTube channel, likecommentsubscribehitthatmotherfuckingbell, and jesus Sharknado disgusted him. It was just, like, boring. It was trying to be 'so bad it's good' but, that wasn't something you could fuckin' try for without feeling dumb and phony, like all the comedy potential from Sharknado was contained within the name Sharknado, and making a whole fuckin' movie out of it was just beating that shark to death with a horse, y'know?
He glanced around as the credits rolled. At least only one other person had suffered through the entire thing with him - everyone else was in various positions of being passed out.
Abe liked to be the king of the party, and by that he meant the one who stayed up the longest, meaning he'd stored more fuckin' Party Experience than anyone else, which meant he won. The prize was usually getting nudged in the ribs in the morning 'cause he'd slept for a hundred metric years, but who gave a shit, because when Abe went to sleep the party was over, so everyone else could like, drink coffee and have Morning Experience, he wasn't about that shit.
It was gonna be a fucking contest of wills now. Didn't matter that there was only one dude left, they were gonna have good times until he dropped and ceded Abe's rightful place on the party throne. He turned to his bro, who was chilling on the comfy couch next to him. "I want that, like, fuckin' hour and a half of my life back, man. Or at least, like, forcibly yoinked outta my brain."
Vampire Killer
Beginning of Senior Year - Private.
"I suppose it was... educational, in a way. If you wanted to be generous. Which I am being right now? For some reason."
It was probably the weed. In these situations it was often the weed.
Artem pulled his knees up to his chest. It didn't particularly surprise him that he had wound up near-alone and awake in a sea of sleeping bodies; his sleep schedule had naturally reversed over the course of the summer as it always did when school didn't force him to wake at the crack of dawn, and he hadn't fallen out of bed until near 4 PM. He did not expect to tire until sunrise or close enough to it. Of course the substances ingested by all present were likely a factor. Artem was aware, through observation and many inescapable pop culture depictions, that pot tended to cause drowsiness in many; it was not an experience he'd had himself until he made the mistake of eating a brownie at a get-together much like this one and passing out on the couch an hour later.
His mind was too busy to shut down, always. It took inspiration from intoxication (where was his pen, he could write that one down) and pulled words and phrases from the void at random until something brilliant struck. Sometimes he could relax a little, sometimes he just smiled and ate and tried to talk to a ghost or whatever, but he was always ready to be motivated to creative action.
It was a bit difficult to get much motivation out of Sharknado, though.
It wasn't as though he didn't have an affection for less-than-stellar films. He couldn't help but appreciate the heart and effort that went into the old school B-movie or the amateur art film, despite the quality of the finished product. Regardless of his own creative vision he imagined any movie he attempted to make would turn out similarly terrible, so who was he, truly, to judge people trying their best to do something he would have failed at worse himself? So it wasn't the quality he took issue with, really. It was the soullessness of it, the quick cash grab based on a meme that was funny for maybe two minutes—it was how he had felt about Snakes on a Plane, at least until he actually sat down and watched Snakes on a Plane and decided it was honestly pretty funny. This, though? This was unforgivable.
He glanced at his companion, the last survivor of this particular marijuana massacre (he'd workshop that one), and he recognized him vaguely as being named Abe, as to be distinguished in his head from Abel, not that the two shared many attributes beyond coincidentally similar names. They'd certainly found themselves at these parties often enough that he ought to know his name by now, though it occurred to him that he wasn't sure they'd ever shared words in the past beyond "pass the joint" and "are there any more Cheetos".
It was another nice thing, about the weed, about these nights. There was no anxiety pulsing in the back of his skull begging him to run away. He could just... talk. He wondered if it was like that for most people all the time.
"I could think of worse ways to spend an hour and a half, theoretically. I can think of a lot of them actually but most of them are probably too very bad to actually talk about, with words. So I will not. Do that."
It was probably the weed. In these situations it was often the weed.
Artem pulled his knees up to his chest. It didn't particularly surprise him that he had wound up near-alone and awake in a sea of sleeping bodies; his sleep schedule had naturally reversed over the course of the summer as it always did when school didn't force him to wake at the crack of dawn, and he hadn't fallen out of bed until near 4 PM. He did not expect to tire until sunrise or close enough to it. Of course the substances ingested by all present were likely a factor. Artem was aware, through observation and many inescapable pop culture depictions, that pot tended to cause drowsiness in many; it was not an experience he'd had himself until he made the mistake of eating a brownie at a get-together much like this one and passing out on the couch an hour later.
His mind was too busy to shut down, always. It took inspiration from intoxication (where was his pen, he could write that one down) and pulled words and phrases from the void at random until something brilliant struck. Sometimes he could relax a little, sometimes he just smiled and ate and tried to talk to a ghost or whatever, but he was always ready to be motivated to creative action.
It was a bit difficult to get much motivation out of Sharknado, though.
It wasn't as though he didn't have an affection for less-than-stellar films. He couldn't help but appreciate the heart and effort that went into the old school B-movie or the amateur art film, despite the quality of the finished product. Regardless of his own creative vision he imagined any movie he attempted to make would turn out similarly terrible, so who was he, truly, to judge people trying their best to do something he would have failed at worse himself? So it wasn't the quality he took issue with, really. It was the soullessness of it, the quick cash grab based on a meme that was funny for maybe two minutes—it was how he had felt about Snakes on a Plane, at least until he actually sat down and watched Snakes on a Plane and decided it was honestly pretty funny. This, though? This was unforgivable.
He glanced at his companion, the last survivor of this particular marijuana massacre (he'd workshop that one), and he recognized him vaguely as being named Abe, as to be distinguished in his head from Abel, not that the two shared many attributes beyond coincidentally similar names. They'd certainly found themselves at these parties often enough that he ought to know his name by now, though it occurred to him that he wasn't sure they'd ever shared words in the past beyond "pass the joint" and "are there any more Cheetos".
It was another nice thing, about the weed, about these nights. There was no anxiety pulsing in the back of his skull begging him to run away. He could just... talk. He wondered if it was like that for most people all the time.
"I could think of worse ways to spend an hour and a half, theoretically. I can think of a lot of them actually but most of them are probably too very bad to actually talk about, with words. So I will not. Do that."
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
"I guess it educated me on the limits of, like, my apathy, because if stopping Sharknado from happening to us wasn't enough for me to get my ass off the couch and get the remote, I dunno what the hell would."
Artem was a chill dude but for some reason, Abe kinda wanted to burst out laughing every time he looked at him. He wasn't crazy, right? Like, that guy's existence on the material plane was trippy as hell, right? Like, here was this dude, this Dracula-backwards looking motherfucker, the sorta dude who could only have lived like five-hundred years ago 'cause you went to the fucking Louvre and some lucky asshole had gotten the chance to be in the same room with him for a while, and also coincidentally paint him.
But here he was on a Saturday night, in the year of someone's lord twenty-seventeen, high off his ass, watching a godawful movie with some random asshole. Life was fuckin' bizarre and beautiful, wasn't it.
Speaking of beautiful. Abe looked Artem in his vampire-hypnosis-eyes for a moment, and he kinda wanted to spice things up for a moment, because he wasn't going to fall asleep yet, because he wasn't going to lose. He wasn't expecting anything to happen, like, it'd be nice if something did, but the reactions he got from prodding people were usually their own reward.
Abe leaned back on the couch, perfectly at ease, slight smirk on his face which was practically a grin by him-standards. "Anyways. Hey. Bro. You're like, fuckin' gorgeous. You know that, right?"
Artem was a chill dude but for some reason, Abe kinda wanted to burst out laughing every time he looked at him. He wasn't crazy, right? Like, that guy's existence on the material plane was trippy as hell, right? Like, here was this dude, this Dracula-backwards looking motherfucker, the sorta dude who could only have lived like five-hundred years ago 'cause you went to the fucking Louvre and some lucky asshole had gotten the chance to be in the same room with him for a while, and also coincidentally paint him.
But here he was on a Saturday night, in the year of someone's lord twenty-seventeen, high off his ass, watching a godawful movie with some random asshole. Life was fuckin' bizarre and beautiful, wasn't it.
Speaking of beautiful. Abe looked Artem in his vampire-hypnosis-eyes for a moment, and he kinda wanted to spice things up for a moment, because he wasn't going to fall asleep yet, because he wasn't going to lose. He wasn't expecting anything to happen, like, it'd be nice if something did, but the reactions he got from prodding people were usually their own reward.
Abe leaned back on the couch, perfectly at ease, slight smirk on his face which was practically a grin by him-standards. "Anyways. Hey. Bro. You're like, fuckin' gorgeous. You know that, right?"
Oh, that was kind of clever, actually. "It educated me on the limits of my apathy". That was reproducible. Maybe not in its intended context since Artem didn't really expect to be writing about Sharknado anytime soon, but removed from its spoken intention it actually came off as sort of profound. Would it be weird if he used something someone had said to him as character dialogue? Probably not, right? Art imitated life, people found inspiration from all sources, Abe probably wouldn't remember having said it in the morning. That kinda made him feel guiltier about it, though. Maybe he should credit him somehow? Mention him as an inspiration in the foreword? He didn't know his last name, though. It would probably be weird to ask for it in this particular context.
Probably he wasn't going to remember the line by tomorrow, anyway, cursed as he was currently with the absence of a pen and paper. It was already beginning to slip. Abe though, he was not, he was certainly still present in a literal sense. He was interesting, maybe. It was difficult to really judge based on two sentences and his face but Artem could just tell these things, sometimes. It was a sort of aura, a sort of... presence? Presence was better, aura implied some sort of belief in something he didn't want to commit to right now. Presence was presents. Gifts. He was thinking too hard and it was making him hungry again.
Hang on, Abe was saying something.
He said... huh?
"Huh?"
Probably he wasn't going to remember the line by tomorrow, anyway, cursed as he was currently with the absence of a pen and paper. It was already beginning to slip. Abe though, he was not, he was certainly still present in a literal sense. He was interesting, maybe. It was difficult to really judge based on two sentences and his face but Artem could just tell these things, sometimes. It was a sort of aura, a sort of... presence? Presence was better, aura implied some sort of belief in something he didn't want to commit to right now. Presence was presents. Gifts. He was thinking too hard and it was making him hungry again.
Hang on, Abe was saying something.
He said... huh?
"Huh?"
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Ohohohohoho, now there was a reaction. Not much in the verbal department store, but Artem's face was turning red as a... red thing. Red like a wineglass filled with a dubious substance, to continue the tired bloodsucker metaphor.
Abe'd figured that Artem would've gotten comments like that all the fuckin' time, 'cause like, just look at him, like to the point of actively being annoyed whenever someone made googly eyes at him, and annoying people a lil' bit was also real fun, but nope. Bolt from the blue, straight through the heart. Hell yeah.
He considered changing tactics and abruptly changing the topic, do a little conversational dance to confuse the hell outta Artem, but then Abe might not get a proper conversational-like response, so he'd just have to go with a one-two compliment combo to sweep the dude right off the couch and onto the floor, unconscious, so Abe could win and also have the furniture to himself.
"Y'know, like, gorgeous. Good-looking. Anime boy pretty. Y'know, like, nya," Abe said, making a shitty little meme kitty paw movement with his hand. He'd limit himself to that for the moment - flustered was real fun, but he didn't wanna like, push the guy into a weird and skeevy corner that'd ruin the chill vibe they'd been riding.
Abe'd figured that Artem would've gotten comments like that all the fuckin' time, 'cause like, just look at him, like to the point of actively being annoyed whenever someone made googly eyes at him, and annoying people a lil' bit was also real fun, but nope. Bolt from the blue, straight through the heart. Hell yeah.
He considered changing tactics and abruptly changing the topic, do a little conversational dance to confuse the hell outta Artem, but then Abe might not get a proper conversational-like response, so he'd just have to go with a one-two compliment combo to sweep the dude right off the couch and onto the floor, unconscious, so Abe could win and also have the furniture to himself.
"Y'know, like, gorgeous. Good-looking. Anime boy pretty. Y'know, like, nya," Abe said, making a shitty little meme kitty paw movement with his hand. He'd limit himself to that for the moment - flustered was real fun, but he didn't wanna like, push the guy into a weird and skeevy corner that'd ruin the chill vibe they'd been riding.
Ah, yes, that was what he'd said. And was saying again. It was terribly hot in here, all of a sudden?
Artem wasn't particularly used to compliments, though that was, if he were to be charitable to himself, perhaps more a result of his introverted nature than of his own lack of compliment-worthy attributes. Though he didn't particularly think he had many of those, either. His writing, perhaps, deserved praise at times; not often, he was hardly oblivious to the many, many flaws in his work, but occasionally he'd come up with something he thought worthy, things he'd share with the writing club or sometimes just with Dolly. His face burned then, too, but not quite in the same way? This was an extreme circumstance, though. The extreme always seemed to make an impression, etcetera. He was rapidly losing track of the situation.
He hoped that all of this thinking wasn't taking as much actual time as it felt, or else he'd have been staring blankly at Abe for minutes on end. Time was one of those things that went in and out a little bit.
"Er," Artem started to speak, and then stopped because he realized he hadn't actually thought of a thing to say. What did you say, to that sort of thing? The exact wording made Artem pretty sure Abe wasn't serious. Was... he making fun of him? Would he look silly, if he accepted the compliment? But it would be rude not to. He tried to write the scene in his head but it was terribly easy to fall into every possible bad ending that way. The world didn't run itself on a need for dramatic tension. Probably, anyway.
"I—uh, t-thank you." That was a thing, that worked as a thing to say, and he had said it, now. He was maybe stuck staring at his lap for a little while, though. He considered asking Abe if he actually watched anime, but if he didn't Artem would have outed himself as an impossible loser and there was no backtracking from there. He felt inexplicably compelled to not be a loser at this current moment in time because however unearned the compliment he had received felt he was loathe to make its giver regret his decision.
He ought to say something better suited to continuing a conversation, though.
"Do you, er—" he started and stopped himself again with the horrifying realization that he had nearly unironically said the words do you come here often, a social cliche so trite he'd burn his notebook before putting it to paper. Of course, now he'd started a thought, which meant he was supposed to continue it, which meant he had to think of something else to say that started with those words, except instead of doing that he just opened his mouth again and let things come out.
"D-do you come here? Often?"
Oh no.
Artem wasn't particularly used to compliments, though that was, if he were to be charitable to himself, perhaps more a result of his introverted nature than of his own lack of compliment-worthy attributes. Though he didn't particularly think he had many of those, either. His writing, perhaps, deserved praise at times; not often, he was hardly oblivious to the many, many flaws in his work, but occasionally he'd come up with something he thought worthy, things he'd share with the writing club or sometimes just with Dolly. His face burned then, too, but not quite in the same way? This was an extreme circumstance, though. The extreme always seemed to make an impression, etcetera. He was rapidly losing track of the situation.
He hoped that all of this thinking wasn't taking as much actual time as it felt, or else he'd have been staring blankly at Abe for minutes on end. Time was one of those things that went in and out a little bit.
"Er," Artem started to speak, and then stopped because he realized he hadn't actually thought of a thing to say. What did you say, to that sort of thing? The exact wording made Artem pretty sure Abe wasn't serious. Was... he making fun of him? Would he look silly, if he accepted the compliment? But it would be rude not to. He tried to write the scene in his head but it was terribly easy to fall into every possible bad ending that way. The world didn't run itself on a need for dramatic tension. Probably, anyway.
"I—uh, t-thank you." That was a thing, that worked as a thing to say, and he had said it, now. He was maybe stuck staring at his lap for a little while, though. He considered asking Abe if he actually watched anime, but if he didn't Artem would have outed himself as an impossible loser and there was no backtracking from there. He felt inexplicably compelled to not be a loser at this current moment in time because however unearned the compliment he had received felt he was loathe to make its giver regret his decision.
He ought to say something better suited to continuing a conversation, though.
"Do you, er—" he started and stopped himself again with the horrifying realization that he had nearly unironically said the words do you come here often, a social cliche so trite he'd burn his notebook before putting it to paper. Of course, now he'd started a thought, which meant he was supposed to continue it, which meant he had to think of something else to say that started with those words, except instead of doing that he just opened his mouth again and let things come out.
"D-do you come here? Often?"
Oh no.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Haha wow the dude was flailing. Critical fuckin' hit, exactly what Abe'd been hoping for, now that's what he called the sound of jock jams volume four-hundred-and-sixty-nine, in the sense that Artem's hesitant thanks was music to his ears. Dude definitely wasn't used to this sorta attention, which was real fun, as long as he was in, like, 'oh no what this is new and exciting' flailing mode, and not, like, 'beep boop my operating system just shat itself, please make a virgin sacrifice to reboot' sorta way.
Speaking of flailing, after that last line Abe burst out laughing, 'cause, come on. He tried to get a hold of himself, because, like, people were sleeping, and even though he doubted any of them were gonna wake up easily, if any of them got up they'd be real mad, and awake, and Abe would be even further from the party throne, and also he didn't want Artem to think he was making fun of him?
"Sorry, sorry, you're cool," Abe managed to say, and okay no the dude was totally 100% lame but like in a cute way so that was basically the same as being cool, "but, like, you know, right? You know what you just said. That is objectively funny."
He leaned forward a little bit, closer to Artem, and it felt like his head and the body and the whole world was like, swaying and shimmering, like sometimes you had a lotta green shit and then you sat still for a long time so you felt quasi-normal but then when you tried to get up it's like the quasi-modo fucking belltower just rang five inches away from you and you were shook, but like, a lot nicer than the metaphor made it sound.
Time to get down to business. He grinned. Smiling was always way easier when he was stoned out of his mind, which probably said something bad about his usual emotional state, but whatever. That wasn't the business.
"Anyways. You wanna make out?" He didn't even know if Artem was into dudes, but the possible outcomes were like, either flustering the guy into complete submission and then moving on to like, some sorta actual conversation, or smooching the most out-of-his-league guy Abe had ever met. Win-win.
Speaking of flailing, after that last line Abe burst out laughing, 'cause, come on. He tried to get a hold of himself, because, like, people were sleeping, and even though he doubted any of them were gonna wake up easily, if any of them got up they'd be real mad, and awake, and Abe would be even further from the party throne, and also he didn't want Artem to think he was making fun of him?
"Sorry, sorry, you're cool," Abe managed to say, and okay no the dude was totally 100% lame but like in a cute way so that was basically the same as being cool, "but, like, you know, right? You know what you just said. That is objectively funny."
He leaned forward a little bit, closer to Artem, and it felt like his head and the body and the whole world was like, swaying and shimmering, like sometimes you had a lotta green shit and then you sat still for a long time so you felt quasi-normal but then when you tried to get up it's like the quasi-modo fucking belltower just rang five inches away from you and you were shook, but like, a lot nicer than the metaphor made it sound.
Time to get down to business. He grinned. Smiling was always way easier when he was stoned out of his mind, which probably said something bad about his usual emotional state, but whatever. That wasn't the business.
"Anyways. You wanna make out?" He didn't even know if Artem was into dudes, but the possible outcomes were like, either flustering the guy into complete submission and then moving on to like, some sorta actual conversation, or smooching the most out-of-his-league guy Abe had ever met. Win-win.
Artem didn't even have the luxury of pretending Abe had missed his enormous social blunder and he was now strongly considering the pros and cons of transforming into vapor and whisking himself away from this conversation. On one hand, he could escape this conversation, and possibly the country. He imagined Dolly would understand, given the circumstances. On the other hand, he couldn't actually physically do that, so all he was doing by contemplating the possibility was delaying his social meltdown by a few extra seconds.
He had been called cool, though, so that was maybe something? Possibly? Had Abe been that close to him this whole time?
Oh.
Oh dear.
He—well, he didn't physically recoil, no, that would have been horribly rude. It wasn't that Abe was unattractive, or anything, honestly he had been too busy trying not to meet his gaze to actually make any judgment on that account and it wouldn't really matter, anyway, all things considered. Artem was... inexperienced was a word, perhaps. Naive, maybe? He felt the implications there were a bit uncharitable. At any rate, he didn't plan to have his first kiss with a boy he barely knew at a random party even if he was grinning at him in a way that made him shiver in some unaccountable way.
"I—"
How could he explain all of that when his tongue was so tangled, though?
"Er, I haven't—I mean, I've never—" He gestured, meaninglessly, which was probably more embarrassing than saying actual words would have been. "Never—never kissed. Anyone. Before." No, wait, the words were worse.
"I'm, er. Sorry."
Did that count as a no? He wasn't really sure, but it was hopefully enough, because he thought if he tried to speak again his vocal cords might tie themselves off in mutiny.
He had been called cool, though, so that was maybe something? Possibly? Had Abe been that close to him this whole time?
Oh.
Oh dear.
He—well, he didn't physically recoil, no, that would have been horribly rude. It wasn't that Abe was unattractive, or anything, honestly he had been too busy trying not to meet his gaze to actually make any judgment on that account and it wouldn't really matter, anyway, all things considered. Artem was... inexperienced was a word, perhaps. Naive, maybe? He felt the implications there were a bit uncharitable. At any rate, he didn't plan to have his first kiss with a boy he barely knew at a random party even if he was grinning at him in a way that made him shiver in some unaccountable way.
"I—"
How could he explain all of that when his tongue was so tangled, though?
"Er, I haven't—I mean, I've never—" He gestured, meaninglessly, which was probably more embarrassing than saying actual words would have been. "Never—never kissed. Anyone. Before." No, wait, the words were worse.
"I'm, er. Sorry."
Did that count as a no? He wasn't really sure, but it was hopefully enough, because he thought if he tried to speak again his vocal cords might tie themselves off in mutiny.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Welp, that was fun while it lasted, but Abe had already shoved his foot in the metaphorical door, and it slammed shut, which kinda hurt, and he sure as hell wasn't gonna be shoving any encyclopedias through the crack that remained, so he'd just have to give up and take all his wares home with him, and take them to bed, and just like, roll around with those dusty old pages, and get a papercut.
Was that a metaphor for jerking it? He'd been kinda taking it in that direction, but now he was just kinda sad at the thought of some down-on-his-luck dude whose only companions were some useless books that'd gotten dinosaur-metored by Wikipedia like a decade ago. Who are you, dude? What's you story? Do you need help, or like, a hug?
"Nah, dude, it's all good," Abe said, shifting over to give Artem his personal space back. "I wouldn't recommend myself for a first kiss anyway, unless you wanted to drop your standards down to, like, hell." That was kind of a lie, because having some amount of self-confidence was how Abe had gotten around to making out with enough people to count on one hand, but self-deprecation was a fun and easy way to clear the air.
So, mechanically, it probably would've been a pretty good time, but not in the sense that someone who cared about their first kiss would be hoping for. He'd kinda figured that Artem was a virgin, but the fact that he'd never been kissed was surprising, 'cause every time Abe looked away and then looked back at him like the old spice guy it felt like his face was gonna melt like the fucking holy grail because of how on-point his aesthetic was, but also, it wasn't a surprise at all considering the adorably flustered way he was acting.
Abe's first hadn't been anything special, just a fun time at a party with someone who didn't meant much to him in the long run. He didn't regret that at all, but he could definitely get why most people made a Big Deal outta it.
Anyways, it was time to deploy a tactical topic change. "Man. One more year of all this," he said, gesturing vaguely to the people sleeping around them, "and then we all gotta get lives and shit." Maybe that was too much of a downer, but it'd been on his mind, and having something to think about would probably distract Artem from melting any further.
Was that a metaphor for jerking it? He'd been kinda taking it in that direction, but now he was just kinda sad at the thought of some down-on-his-luck dude whose only companions were some useless books that'd gotten dinosaur-metored by Wikipedia like a decade ago. Who are you, dude? What's you story? Do you need help, or like, a hug?
"Nah, dude, it's all good," Abe said, shifting over to give Artem his personal space back. "I wouldn't recommend myself for a first kiss anyway, unless you wanted to drop your standards down to, like, hell." That was kind of a lie, because having some amount of self-confidence was how Abe had gotten around to making out with enough people to count on one hand, but self-deprecation was a fun and easy way to clear the air.
So, mechanically, it probably would've been a pretty good time, but not in the sense that someone who cared about their first kiss would be hoping for. He'd kinda figured that Artem was a virgin, but the fact that he'd never been kissed was surprising, 'cause every time Abe looked away and then looked back at him like the old spice guy it felt like his face was gonna melt like the fucking holy grail because of how on-point his aesthetic was, but also, it wasn't a surprise at all considering the adorably flustered way he was acting.
Abe's first hadn't been anything special, just a fun time at a party with someone who didn't meant much to him in the long run. He didn't regret that at all, but he could definitely get why most people made a Big Deal outta it.
Anyways, it was time to deploy a tactical topic change. "Man. One more year of all this," he said, gesturing vaguely to the people sleeping around them, "and then we all gotta get lives and shit." Maybe that was too much of a downer, but it'd been on his mind, and having something to think about would probably distract Artem from melting any further.
Okay. So he had navigated that particular conversational hurdle with some degree of grace, or at least Abe had chosen to laugh at him only internally, which was better than the alternative. Artem managed an awkward but still grateful smile as Abe moved away, relieved that his inept rejection had been taken for what it was. Rejection still felt a bit harsh, as though it was a personal matter, as though anyone else in this position on this night may have had more success with the same question; he had the momentary urge to open his mouth and explain that that wasn't the case, but Abe seemed content to move on, and even Artem could sense how bad an idea such a thing would be, however well-intentioned.
The rapid change of topic was welcome, though he was flustered enough still that it took a moment for him to process it. Another year, yes, he thought, before he realized what the significance of another year was. All years were significant, though, weren't they? One more year and, blank. He could fill in that sentence with any number of changing priorities, responsibilities, friendships, etcetera, not that a year as a discrete unit was necessarily useful in that way. It was fairly arbitrary, but all units were kind of arbitrary, the year sort of less so since it at least imitated a natural phenomenon to some extent. But years didn't cleanly separate parts of a story like chapters in a book; school years were a somewhat more useful measurement, with clear-cut beginnings and endings, but those only lasted until school was done, and then what did you use to demarcate the end of one plotline and the beginning of a new?
Artem realized at this point that he was maybe higher than he'd realized.
"Yeah. Yes," he said when his mouth opened again. "Senior year. It's... odd, when I think about it, how quickly time passes when you look back on it. But it's so slow, when it's happening."
Three years of high school came down to moments in his memories, the only bits worth writing down. The school years were a useful measurement, theoretically, but he felt the whole of the last three years could be condensed into one chapter of a theoretical memoir. Edited down to nearly nothing. It was a bit depressing, if he overthought it, but nearly nothing was not nothing. One was a product of their collective experiences. Etcetera. He was forgetting where he was going with this. His face still felt warm and red and he probably wasn't going to forget this anytime soon despite it being objectively barely significant.
"What do you want to do? After all this."
It was a safe enough question, but, annoyingly, not one he himself had a satisfactory answer to yet.
The rapid change of topic was welcome, though he was flustered enough still that it took a moment for him to process it. Another year, yes, he thought, before he realized what the significance of another year was. All years were significant, though, weren't they? One more year and, blank. He could fill in that sentence with any number of changing priorities, responsibilities, friendships, etcetera, not that a year as a discrete unit was necessarily useful in that way. It was fairly arbitrary, but all units were kind of arbitrary, the year sort of less so since it at least imitated a natural phenomenon to some extent. But years didn't cleanly separate parts of a story like chapters in a book; school years were a somewhat more useful measurement, with clear-cut beginnings and endings, but those only lasted until school was done, and then what did you use to demarcate the end of one plotline and the beginning of a new?
Artem realized at this point that he was maybe higher than he'd realized.
"Yeah. Yes," he said when his mouth opened again. "Senior year. It's... odd, when I think about it, how quickly time passes when you look back on it. But it's so slow, when it's happening."
Three years of high school came down to moments in his memories, the only bits worth writing down. The school years were a useful measurement, theoretically, but he felt the whole of the last three years could be condensed into one chapter of a theoretical memoir. Edited down to nearly nothing. It was a bit depressing, if he overthought it, but nearly nothing was not nothing. One was a product of their collective experiences. Etcetera. He was forgetting where he was going with this. His face still felt warm and red and he probably wasn't going to forget this anytime soon despite it being objectively barely significant.
"What do you want to do? After all this."
It was a safe enough question, but, annoyingly, not one he himself had a satisfactory answer to yet.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."