#avrygraham

[dylnsheridn]

"I told you I didn't want kids when we first got married! We're not negotiating my uterus."

Dylan frowned and hugged the couch pillow to his chest, afraid of speaking on the off chance a hiccup turned into vomiting. If he were sober he’d appreciate what Avery was doing a little bit more. They were friends, the older boy had no obligation to babysit him while he was under the influence, especially because there were better things to do – yet here they were, arguing about their ‘not-marriage’. “But like kids are awesome, and cute little… cute little fluffy fuckers, y’know? Not fluffy, but like fluffy.” He put emphasis on the last word as if that made his argument more compelling and logically sound, but instead Avery just stared at him attempting to look unamused.

“No kids.”

“But I want like – how about just one? One kid! We can do that!

“I told you I didn’t want kids when we first got married! We’re not negotiating my uterus!”

He let out a small groan of disappointment, and pushed himself upright. Dylan was having a hard time actually keeping track of the conversation. Part of him wanted to go on some sort of tangent about how awesome the newest Manchester Orchestra album was (it was heavy, but soft, but not too soft), but he knew better than to change the topic mid-‘argument’. “What about a dog? They’re like drunk fluffy babies – wait no! A cat! Can we get a cat? Drunk fluffy gymnast babies with no social skills. We can teach it how to read and help sad kids who don’t know how.”

Dylan grinned widely, and collapsed backwards onto the couch. He was satisfied with this alternative. Who needed kids when you could have a drunk fluffy baby?

[dylnsheridn]

Phone Call @ Avery

Dylan: stumbled out of the venue, a sharp ringing in his ears. He could still feel the bass thumping somewhere in the soles of his feet, but he’d decided he’d had enough. They were only celebrating his roommate leaving, the New Years celebrations were over, and his ‘go big or go home’ attitude was starting to dissipate. He was incredibly drunk, and incredibly tired – in fact he’d dozed off on the steps quite a few times until he’d downed a few Red Bull and vodkas. Dylan pressed his back against the wall in efforts of maintaining his balance as he fumbled for his phone. “Gotta tell Avery, ‘cause yea.” He filled with his phone for a few before giving up and pressing the home button, telling Siri to call ‘Rocket Man’. The ringing began, and Dylan realized he couldn’t actually hear shit. He’d probably been standing too close to the speakers again. There was a click on the line, indicating that Avery had answered – at least he thought there was, and a lopsided grin made its way across his features. “Avery,” he slurred excited, “s’fuckin’ – s’fuckin’ awesome! Where are you? Wait. I have a thing to tell you.”

[dylnsheridn]

warheadssss.

I got into a fight with my dad once when I was around fourteen. It sorta just -- it got out of hand really quickly, and I can only remember bits and pieces of it. But, my older brother was there and he... he didn't do anything. I spent a week in the hospital with three broken ribs. I had to lie and tell everyone I fell all kinds of fucked up during hockey.