BRANCE + RINNEY

teenage warrants

He wasn't thinking.

When did he ever think?

The blood on his hands ran under his skin, sinking into the lakes of his own. It was cold, snow-like. The feeling of it made him shiver, his surroundings fogged and hazy as tears dribbled towards the corners of his nose.

He should've been thinking.

There was a flicker of light coming from the pharmacy across the street, welcoming him in with warm fingers. He declined the offer, turning his back to face a new path.

He could hear the faintest sound of sirens, the hush of squealing tires and officer demands.

His legs moved on their own, his heart lurching wildly as his vision abruptly focused.

Had he been here before?

There were lights on, dim ones. The grass in the lawn hadn't been cut for awhile, long strands of it reaching their arms up in attempts to grab at the windows. The paint on the home was worn down and torn, peeling off onto the cement laid by the garage.

The police sirens were closer now, down the road maybe.

He swallowed his fear, his courage too. He moved on no emotion, rapping his fists against the front door of the home with quick speed.

His knuckles grew sore quickly, splotches of red bruising the paint of the door in front of him.

A mop of brown curls, shorter than his own, appeared several inches beneath him. A smile invited him inside, a hand yanking at the thin jacket tossed around his arms.

"Care to explain why you're dragging blood into my house?"

It was weird, for the both of them.

They weren't close.

But they understood one another, somewhat.

"I didn't, I didn't mean to. I didn't know I was coming here."

The smell of copper crawled and settled into his nose, the color staining his hands glaring up at him. The other boy seemed to notice this and took him by the wrist, leading him farther into the house.

"Whatever, it's fine. Wash your hands and straighten yourself up. We'll talk when you're done."

The shorter boy left him alone, muttering as he walked away with fast steps.

He felt bad staining the sink red.

He was happy to rid himself of the color however, despite how pale and calloused his hands usually stayed.

"Ready to talk?"

Vance put his head in his hands, his fingers messily threading into the strands of his hair as he sighed. Finney sat himself back, quickly glancing at the door to confirm that it was still locked.

"I didn't kill him. I swear I didn't kill him. We had fought, that's all. We had fought and I had gone somewhere and when, when I came back he was unconscious. There was so much, so much fucking blood." Vance looked down at his hands, opening and closing them as his eyes glazed over slowly.

Finney pulled his knees to his chest, tilting his head atop of them.

"If you didn't kill whoever we're talking about, why are you so scared?"

Vance put his head up slightly, meeting Finney's eyes. His lips dipped into a frown as he choked out a sarcastic laugh.

"This town is too damn small. Why do you think?"

Finney let a smile crawl over his mouth as he rubbed the back of his neck. He stood after a minute and nodded his head at Vance, silently telling him to do the same.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

Vance gave him a weird, disbelieving look. Finney laughed at the expression, waving his hand towards himself.

"Look, there's nothing holding us here right? Let's just go. I have a beat up truck that my dad left me a couple months ago before he disappeared to god knows where. We can take it and just, go."

Vance stood up, his movements hesitant as he reached towards where Finney had thrown his jacket.

"Are you sure about this?"

Finney grabbed his keys, slinging them around his finger with a yawn.

"Move your ass Hopper."