Revolution (rewrite) - Lashton AU boyxboy

4. i heard the people who lived on the ceiling

song: lost in the supermarket - the clash
(i just love this song)

a.i.

"Wait, wait, wait, start over."

I sigh heavily, throwing my head back against the headrest in exasperation. I can't openly chastise Ray about being so neglectful because he's the best friend I have--but when he rolls his eyes after clearly understanding my message, I can't help but want to punch him between the eyes. He laughs at what other than my expense, really, and continues tracing the pattern on my arm with the tattoo gun.

"You're a shitty fucking friend, you know that?" I say, fighting a smile despite the anger pooling in my stomach like a hot, heavy stone. He laughs again, this time more boisterous and scornful than the first. I love Ray like a brother, but even I can't compete with how far his head is up his own ass.

"Why don't you hire a fucking therapist?" he counters. He doesn't mean it, but I don't fucking care. He's been stabbing me with a needle for two hours straight; at this point, it's just adding insult to injury.

"I don't believe in therapy," I explain, tapping my fingers anxiously on the arm of the chair. Ray chuckles, but it's just to cover up the fact that, above all, he pities me. I don't want his pity, but I know that I deserve it. I'm a sorry excuse for a human and everybody that knows me can agree. "Can we take a break? I need a smoke."

He lets go of my arm and sets the tattoo gun down, sighing. He looks troubled. "All I have to do is shade the petals," he tells me. "You can't go two hours without a smoke? What's wrong with you?"

I resist the urge to answer his question with a joke about how life fucking sucks, because I know that any attempt to kid away the fact that I smoke like a fucking chimney these days will be intercepted by Ray's big-brotherly concern for my well-being. I can't help it, though; after the shitshow with that kid the other night, I've been smoking a pack a day. It just makes me less antsy.

"No way," he says with a sense of finality. I bite my tongue to keep from telling him what a dirty fucking hypocrite he is--he smoked almost two packs a day for a month after Julia dumped him. That's twice as bad as me. Besides, who gives a shit how much I smoke? It's my fucking money, my fucking lungs, and thus, my decision. "That's so...unhygienic. You'll get infected."

I grind my teeth together--the one thing Emma gave me that I can't just throw off an overpass or light on fire. Excuses, excuses. Motherfuckers always trying to tell me what to do. There's a reason I only have three goddamn friends.

"So, some kid stole your weed or something?"

I bite my cheeks at the mention of him. I know Ray's trying to distract me, but I don't care--I won't pass up an opportunity to bitch about the little fucker. I laugh in disbelief. "He came to my dorm, weaseled free weed out of me, and then accused me of fucking molesting him. Can you fucking believe that? Like I would ever..." And then, as quickly as I found them, the words leave me.

Ray looks at me knowingly, with that face like he's trying not to feel bad for me but he just can't help it. "Yeah, I know, Ash."

My eyes find my free hand, where my fingernails pick at the leather of the chair. I don't have any skeletons in my closet--at least not where Ray's concerned. He's seen them all, paid extra for the tour. He was the first person I met when I came to the city. He gave me my first tattoo: a little arrow just below my shoulder. He said it meant moving forward. I told him that was fucking lame, but in secret it's my favorite one--the only one that matters.

"You gonna kick his ass?" Ray asks me. He knows the answer is yes--just not that the deed has already been done.

"Gonna? Try already did," I scoff arrogantly. I'd hate to call it a defense mechanism, but in a way it is--nobody wants to fuck with a guy who can't be hurt, and you can't hurt a guy who already thinks he's better than everyone. "I put the bat to that motherfucker."