american girlfriend | life is strange oneshots

warren | sober thoughts

Thinking About You
Radiohead
01:23 ━━━━●───── 02:41
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On a random Thursday of each month the evening at Blackwell Academy was consumed by loud, bumping house music and drunken teenagers partying like it was their last day on Earth. The Vortex Club, Blackwell's royal family, would commandeer the swimming pool to host their lavish soirees. I had been to a couple, but the noise and the smell of drunk, sweaty teens quickly became unappealing. As the semesters went on, I started leaving campus to avoid the events altogether, deciding to occupy my time studying at the public library, grabbing breakfast for dinner at the Two Whales, or walking the beach. Anything that sounded remotely more interesting.

That night was different. It seemed like I was the only person who didn't want to attend tonight's party, let alone be anywhere near campus. Around 11:30 at night, I decided to pack up my things and return to the dorms for bed. As I pulled into the parking lot of Blackwell, I could already hear the loud music and ever-familiar chatter. I parked my car and turned off the ignition, stepping out into the cool September night air with a slight shiver. The music was intolerably loud, and I realized that, regardless of the time and my distance to the school, I'd still hear it faintly in my dorm that night.

I ran a frustrated hand through my hair as I looked around the parking lot at students coming and going from the party. In the corner of my eye, I noticed a familiar figure, Warren Graham, sitting on the curb, curled in on himself with his head in his arms.

Warren and I had been friends for a while. Science and math were never my strong suit, unlike him. I much preferred writing and the arts to experiments and calculations. When we were freshmen, he helped me when I started to fail biology, tutoring me after school and being my buddy in class. After that, we started hanging out from time to time. We watched movies, talked about video games and comics, and bonded over our mutual fade-into-the-background-ness back at our home school and, unfortunately, when we were accepted to Blackwell as well. However, Warren never faded into the background for me. Even before the two of us became friends, I noticed his presence very quickly. When the sight of his nose wrinkling while he laughed made my heart skip a beat, I realized that maybe I liked him as more than just a friend.

My expression softened as I approached him. Whatever negativity I harbored toward the party was washed away, now replaced by worry and concern for the boy sitting alone.

"Hey, Warren," I said, softly, crouching to his level. "You okay?"

It was like my words stirred Warren back to consciousness. Not necessarily that he was asleep, but rather that he wasn't all there. Like he was sinking into the ground and hearing my voice was enough to bring him closer to the surface again. He lifted his head like it was too heavy for his neck to support, almost immediately using his shoulder as a rest for his head of dirt-colored hair. A tender, excited smile stretched across his thin lips, making his eyes crinkle ever so slightly and his cheeks lifted with happiness. He looked tired, but behind the fogginess in his eyes, I could see he was happy to see me.

"Hey, you..." he slurred as he tried to sit up a little straighter. "I'm much better now." His words dragged, dripping from his lips in a sing-song, honeyed tone.

I smiled. "Oh yeah? How much have you had to drink?"

Warren looked off for a moment, staring past me rather than directly at me. Slowly, the gears in his head were starting to turn, twisting with each other as he traced his memory back for each shot he had taken along with the handful of beers he had either sipped on or shotgunned. The boy who was usually so good at math was struggling to work out simple addition, the alcohol hindering his intelligence. He looked down at his hands, now counting out on his fingers before he stuck both of them up in the air with a proud smile. While holding down his pointer finger with his thumb on one hand, he expertly determined he had had about eight drinks (which was most certainly a vast overestimation on his part). My eyes widened at the realization, shaking my head with a sigh.