Give Me A Label (I'll Make Confetti)

Chapter 1: Give Me A Label

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

The shrill alarm pierced through the silent morning, and a groan was heard from beneath the jumble of blankets atop the double bed beside the alarm.

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

There was another groan before a long, tanned arm snaked from beneath the covers, a hand swiping at the plastic and sending it hurtling to the floor.

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

Gregory Lestrade cursed as he tried to untangle himself from his quilt, eventually going arse-over and smacking into the cold floorboards with a yelp. He swivelled about as he sat, looking for the bloody clock.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-

'I heard you the first fucking time,' the seventeen-year-old snarled at no-one in particular, flailing about as he pushed the crap lining his bedroom floor aside. He eventually found the bright blue alarm beneath a pair of jeans that'd been under his bed for way too long.

He wrinkled his nose and tugged the alarm forward, pulling the plug from the wall and shutting off the shrill beeping.

Greg groaned in relief and sprawled across the floor on his back, eyes closing against the annoying sunshine that had decided to bathe the room in a soft glow.

It was too early... and bright... and everything just felt so terrible. Of course it was just Greg feeling terrible; getting pissed and shagging some random bloke until 3am tended to leave one feeling achy and sick and generally like they were going to die.

Greg wanted to crawl back under the covers for at least a week, maybe two, unfortunately he'd just got comfortable when his mum ripped the door open.

'Rise and shine, Gregory!' she hollered.

Yeah, his mum had a sick sense of humour. While she hated Greg's drinking, and smoking, and... er, sluttish ways, there wasn't a whole heap she could do about it; you know, other then raid his room and take his smokes, his alcohol, and make sure he had a box of condoms at all times (real embarrassing conversation, that one).

'Muum!' Greg whined from somewhere beneath his bed.

'Yes, sweetie?' Maggie Lestrade smiled, pulling the curtains further open. She hummed, 'Oh, it's such a lovely morning.'

Greg grunted.

'Rise and shine, honey, it's time for school.'

'Noo.'

'Ah, well you'd be perfectly fine if you weren't out all night galavanting on that bike of yours,' Maggie tisked.

'I wasn't galavanting,' Greg mumbled. 'Don't ride while intoxicated, isn't that what all the cool kids say?'

Maggie tutted and ripped the blankets from her son, who yelped and scrambled about. Maggie sighed and said, 'Look at you.'

Greg had no idea what she was talking about until he looked down. Ah... yes, well that was unfortunate.

Someone had drawn a giant cock on his stomach in permanent marker, with an arrow pointing down to his crotch and the words "objects are smaller than this fucker claims they are".

'When the hell-'

'Up, shower, now,' Maggie ordered, kicking the teenager in the thigh. 'Honestly, Greg, what are you doing with yourself?'

'Being gorgeous and charming?' Greg tried.

Maggie's eyes darkened and Greg knew he was about to be in serious trouble. His mum might have turned a semi-blind eye to his more illegal habits, but she'd made it her mission in life to put Greg on the straight and narrow. He could have his fun, but she expected him to work hard in school and eventually grow up.