Oxymoron

//chapter 1//

VERY BRIEFLY EDITED I DON'T KNOW WHY I EVEN TRY OMG- THE SONG IS MOOD.

IN PRESENT TIMES

"...I mean, I think he did neurology pretty damn well. Hang on, let me see if I actually have the book." Streak started digging like a madman in his book bag, holding in his right hand, a latte from an "obscure and totally worth modelling in" coffee store across our apartment.

I stared blankly at him, listening to the humming alternative from the cheap $11 Target speakers in the living room and staring at the boy who was currently tossing a bunch of psychology slash neurology books on the plush couch, in front of us.

We were both sitting on it, parallel and cross legged, cramming for a Modern History exam. And according to smart-ass over here, nurturing his psych fetis- I mean exploring the human mind can possibly help us to further understand the prehistoric brain. Yeah, I'm feeling the dire effects already. Losing brain cells sounds absolutely effective.

"I'm sorry, elaborate on how psych, discovered five years ago can help with neanderthals again? They are not as civil and refined, I guess, as us." I said in my most condescending voice ever,with a smirk splattered over my lips. He mocks me with an eye roll and a grunt of annoyance.

"Anywho, if you really aren't interested, I suppose I could listen to what's bothering you." My mouth gaped wide open. Now, a gorgeous smirk played on his face and I was totally caught off guard.

"You'll catch flies if you keep your mouth that open. And I do know that something is bothering you, so don't DE-NY it, babe" Streak blurted, pointing a maternal (or paternal, in this case. But, he does remind me of mom sometimes) looking finger at me before I could even utter a sound. That stupid smirk had grown wider. Damn it.

"Excuse me, mister ass face. But I have nothing tha-" I abruptly stopped myself because I was being Elsa-ed by Streak's blue eyes, which were burning (or rather, freezing. But I guess that doesn't work very well, you know? Like, puh-lease, English; let me do my thing) holes in my head.

My brown, framed eyes mimicked his, but I was challenging him; Streak can be scary if he wants to, or he can sweeter than caster sugar. Sometimes, I wonder in my creaky wooden bed; lying atop sheets that haven't been washed for like, two weeks: Is my best friend a sociopath? Probs...

So, in fear for my life, I complied. "Well, I mean you've heard this like a bazillion times, but-" Streak raises his massive palm to the tip of my nose. My face probably contorted into a shrek-ugly confused expression. Squint- y eyed and sexy.
"Yeah, I have heard it a bazillion times. You hate school, but you know you should be grateful blah blah blah. Because-"
"...after all, this is Harvard." We said at the same time. I played with my onyx black hair and looked at the empty cardboard cup between my knees. Goddamn, he knows me too well.
Streak hunphmed and he skipped into the kitchen, oh so righteously.
I sighed slash groaned in total annoyance,and cheetah-sprinted down the hall, away into the comfort my room.

_____________________________________

"That was swell, wasn't it?" I blurted, having every intention to be sarcastic as fuck, to Streak's dire chagrin.
"I. Want. To. Die." He was mourning his poor Modern history grade in a daze, looking straight out the window of the hipster coffee store. We were sitting in a corner booth right next to the window, and somehow, I think Streaky's a little more melodramatic. Must be the hardcore coffee beans (oh, for fuck's sake).
I ran a hand through my shoulder length mop and slumped my hot cheeks into my hands. To be honest, I didn't feel the same and suicidal.

"Of course you'll get ah-ma-zing grades, I can't believe you sometimes." he let out this weird growling noise, peeled his sweaty tan forehead off of the glass and crashed it back into place; letting out a tiny wince in the process.

The place was quiet. We were like the only customers there. Well, except for Humbert Humbert over there, trying to check Streak out, oh so covertly.

I mean, Streak was beautiful. He was tall and kinda lanky, kinda muscle-y. That wonderful ratio was truly wonderful. His shoulders were perfectly broad and strong looking. His skin was a immaculate brownish color and his face was symmetrical as hell; complemented with icy blue eyes, freckles scattered on his meticulous nose and pretty pink lips.

As I was practically fascinating about my best friend of like, fourteen years, the bell hooked to the French style door chimed. Streak turned to look at the scene and his eyes lingered for a little bit. I just sipped my hot chocolate, being dense and totally indifferent.

In the corner of my eye, I could see Humbert look up too. What is going on?
So I glanced and turned back to the lacquer brown table top.
A giant black hoodie, with a ribbon of smoke tailing it entered the warm vicinity: turning it ice cold.

A/N

Yes, I know this is still suuuper short, but I'd like to keep it that way until the real shit kicks in (I mean the plot, not the obvious drugs I'm using). I'm SO EXCITED TO FIND OUT WHO'S CAME THROUGH THE DOORS OF THE HIPSTER CAFE AHHH. NEXT CHAPTER SOON.

BIANca