The Unlikely Life of Dan [SAMPLE] [boyxboy]

five: q's and k's

Everything in college was different-the people, the lecturers, the vast hallways filled with murmurs of the future, instead of groans of pain and the sound of eyes rolling at every corner.

   A lot of other things were different, too; my living conditions, tolerance level, and hours of sleep. By the end of the week, I'd been running on fumes and coffee, the latter slowly starting to sing my bones to sleep if I had a little too much.

    But it was a good kind of fatigue; as if high school had been nothing but a lengthy nightmare, and I'd woken up to the (relative) dream that is college, still a bit groggy and droopy-eyed from oversleeping (and crying, and fainting, and being saved by a particular green-eyed asshat who still didn't deserve to creep into my thoughts).

And, yet, there he was.

   With my free arm spread across the side of my desk, I pinched it, sending a slight sizzle of pain across my body.

And then, there he wasn't.

   Ah, the joys of the pain and its limitless ability to banish both thoughts and thots. God bless.   

  "You really should sleep more." Quincy muttered from the bed, his legs pulled in, with just enough space for his notebook to rest on his thighs. "Like, a lot more."

    Tell me something I don't know, kiddo.

"I would," I muttered, my eyes fluttering in his direction. The blue in his never ceased to amaze me, particularly because he didn't seem to know the effect he had on people. He glowed, as if God had turned up the dial on his light switch, so much so that he looked like he was about to burst into a starry night sky, and light up the journeys of those below. "But I'm too busy existing for that."

   He let out a chuckle, eyes darting back to his notebook, the pen grazing against the paper like bullets from a machine gun.

I returned my attention to the blank Word document, the cursor blinking, as if it knew how important this was, and it laughed at my shortcoming.

   For whatever reason, our lecturer hadn't been in the whole week, but a task had been scribbled onto the chalkboard on the first day, loud and clear, brief and buttoned.

   Write something-anything-and bring it in next Monday.

NOTE: If it was written before the moment you stepped into this class, it doesn't count. Try me and see what happens.

I wasn't in a trying mood, so I'd taken Quincy's wise advice ("Just do it, Forest. You chose Literature for a reason, right?") and forced myself in front of my laptop, eager and enthusiastic.

   That is, until the screen remained completely blank for over an hour.

     Evil cursor: 1, Dan: 0.

This, unfortunately, was a battle that I would not win.

  "How about taking a nap?" Quincy suggested, still scribbling. I'd only noticed that he carried it with him at all times when I'd strutted into the bathroom to find him on the floor, just beside the stalls, with his notebook on his right thigh, and his pen meeting the skin on his left. He hasn't told me about what he writes, and I haven't asked. This is how it works with us; you won't get the right answers if you aren't asking the right questions.

"It's eleven p.m., Quincy." I grunted. "Power naps are only a thing during the day."

   "Coffee, then?" he tried, every sound swirling into his notebook as he shut it.

"Make it tea," I told him, "and we're on."

   A bright smile flashed in the corner of my eye and I stood up, sending one more condemning glare at the blank screen before walking slowly towards my bed.