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Oh, it's so sad to think about the good times, you and I...; you forgive, you forget but you never let it go (private)
Topic Started: Mar 15 2016, 05:35 AM (1,025 Views)
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Irene Djezari
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"... And he's looooong gone..."

Dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun.

"... When he's neeext to me..."

Man, this had been the song that Irene had torn it up to her Freshman Homecoming dance. Gone by herself because, literally, fuck the man.

No, not that way.

Eyes on eyes on her as she'd wiggled things that she didn't even know were wiggle-able. Good memories, totally. Apparently T-Swift would be coming out with a new album sometime later that year. Definitely on the 'check the fuck out' list, along with a million other things Irene hadn't quite gotten around to yet. The article on Huffington about about wage equality. The third movie in the Rebuild of Eva series. The book she needed from the library to finish her history essay due last Tuesday. Someday she'd be checking the fuck out of all of those things. But today she had a sleepover to go to.

With a song and a dance, no less. Every step towards an old friend's home was in slightly off-tempo harmony to the voice blasting out of her earbuds. She didn't cross at crosswalks more than she did Micheal Jackson spin across them, sometimes nearly causing gridlock when it took her twenty seconds to move a couple of meters. People saw, smiled or otherwise. Irene only fed on their usually indifferent reactions. They didn't have music in their souls, in their auditory cortexes, like she did. No time to be embarrassed, she was too busy embarrassing herself.

But yeah. Sleepover! Jasmine was nice. Biggest try-hard ever, but that was just totes cute. Jasmine was pretty cute.

Yes, in that way.

It was just an inkling of a crush, nothing more. Green eyes, that shit was emerald. Of the Pokemon variety. It was a bit awkward, to say the least, but Irene was well assured by Tumblr by that point that girls were just as healthy an option as guys. Didn't meant she felt in anyway disposed to act on it. They were friends. The more mushy feels were recent. As inclined as she was to jump headfirst, dive into the shallow end of the pool, it just seemed right to... relax. Feel it out. Jasmine already probably knew Irene had the thing with her sexuality, probably enough reblogs flooding her Tumblr to that effect. No need to say anything more direct. Or however the whole 'hey notice me' thing even worked.

"Now I'm lying on the cold hard ground!" With that wub Irene tossed herself into the air, almost more feet-first than head-first, and landed lightly on her soles on the King's front door. Finger guns pointed right at a nonexistent audience hiding behind the thick veneer of the front door. Was Irene late? Jazzy was probably going to hate that. But then they'd hang out and watch Sherlock (the best third of the Superwholock abomination) and all would be forgiven. Maybe. Irene wasn't going to worry about it. Just go ahead and knock. Loudly, ferociously, she'd probably break the door down herself within the minute so eager she was to announce her presence.

"The Princess has arrived, Jazzy!"
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"I bring tribute of... uh... well at some point I was gonna bring something! I guess...!" If left to her own devices Irene would have continued to smash the door into wood pulp, continued to begin the well-formed ramble at hand about an offering of reading materials forgotten under the fuzzy bottom of her beloved Mrs. Fluffle. But rattling from the lock stopped her formless plans. And then rattling from the knob. And then rattling from the lock on the knob. A drawn out affair. Pretty much Irene's daily routine trying to leave the home. She wondered if that's why they had gotten along so swimmingly. Like it had all started, with Irene blithely commenting on Jasmine's choice of reading material. Essentially stalking her through half the school. Worth.

It had almost seemed like the days that Irene was occupied with other friends, Jasmine wasn't as engaged with stuff. Maybe. Irene probably read into it too much, or maybe didn't pay as much attention as she should have. Who knew? Not her.

The door finally slid open.

Wait fuck, there was another door.

Okay, now there were no more doors. Irene exchanged Jazzy's look with her usually confident grin. Wait, her finger guns were still engaged. Gotta put safeties on those bad boys. Irene clicked her fingers back into a more casual splay when there was suddenly a lot of Jasmine around her. Height difference, so Irene had good positioning to snap a hickey over Jazzy's neck if she was so inclined. Weird thoughts- especially since Irene wasn't sure what a hickey was save it having something to do with lips- but Irene honestly didn't mind entertaining them. Still though, more important things to do than daydream. Return hug. Try to minimize the awkward running of hands over fabric-lined form.

"Your genes make me look bad, Jazzy." Old in-joke, at least one Irene was trying to make happen. "I'm not late, am I?" Just in case she was Irene was already preparing the next ramble. Hot and fresh off the dissolving oven that was her brain. Hug kept going, as long as Jazzy would allow it. Irene liked to think there was no rush.
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"I am our better half, after all."

Oh yes, yes she definitely was. Irene was promptly disappointed for two reasons. First reason, her funny still wasn't really catching on. Someday Jazzy would adore Irene's well-developed (ahem) wit. As admirable a goal for the future as any other Irene had ever set for herself, including those typically in pursuit of petty upstaging of some god dang talented hack who upstaged her in drama.

Second reason, hug was woefully short. This was the sort of lack of affection that produced serial killers. One second there were a lotta arms and it was warm and happy, the next? Bam. Cold and the only arms left were those flailing at the space Jasmine had once occupied. I knew we would have to let go someday, baby, but not like this. Irene's internal monologue aptly imitated a squeaky little girl imitating a man of particularly chiseled chin. Make everything monochrome and it'd make a decent film noir, or whatever the things with the black and white detective agencies were called. Irene returned her arms to her side in brief. Moment was over. But she would always have the memory...

Nope, it was already gone.

Hey, that was a familiar act! A young man had dashingly greeted all comers to drama club like that one day a few weeks back. Irene had thought it cute and clever, but according to Jazzy it was funny. Maybe some combination thereof. Cutevernny. A word that totally described itself.

Irene took to her friend's invitation with aplomb, putting on an old air she'd worn during one improv day. A finger twirled at her invisible mustache, which was totally thick and bushy and manly and stuff, and she sauntered through the door frame, all rigid shoulders and proud chin. Mimicry of a true gentleman, AKA, m'lady.

"I'm home, honey!" That particular skit had ended with a betrayal of the husband by angry housewife, a stabbing, and some poignant line about the quiet oppression of women in modern society that had flown at cruising altitude over Irene's head. "Hah!" Irene dropped the accent quick as it came. Looked around, drunk the details in. "Love your place, Jazzy. Super aesthetic. Where's your room?" Jazzy's room. Squee.
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Irene remembered that accent! She'd totally been there. Somehow that one of all things had become the in-joke though. It didn't even reference genetics! Though it apparently did reference the plight of the modern housewife. Somehow.

Segue into the... line? Jazzy could forget things too! Irene giggled, she thought it was unspeakably cute. As in, don't actually fucking speak of it or she'd be giving away too much too soon. That aside! What was the 'um'? Segue into the house? The street? The next scene?




It had been a lot of jumping, oohing-and-ahing, maybe a few awkward innuendos for good measure. One hell of a tour, Irene would definitely be leaving a positive review on Yelp. Compliments to the tour guide especially. Like 'XOXOXO' level compliments. Okay maybe that was one 'X' too many.

And to cap it all off, the bedroom. Squee. Significantly more squee worthy than the toilet, at any rate. Nicely polished and reflective as the porcelain had been.

"Wow, you have an insane view Jazzy! And your neighbors have an insane pool!" Briefly Irene wanted to swim, but sadly the law did not condone swimming in private property. Stupid law. Her eyes drank in the rest of the room, really etched it all into memory. Where hopefully, something would actually stick for longer than a few minutes. It was a simple, clean affair for the most part, sort of like home cooking given new form in room decor. Comfortable. Jazzy even had an actual bookshelf, instead of just leaving books strewn over the floor. So much Irene wanted to touch, open, move around like she were playing Minecraft or something. She'd have been digging at things with a pick and shovel if given half a chance. The eager young woman was at the toybox within the second, patting the shiny before gently daring to open it.

"It's adorable! I mean, like, I really really like what you've done in the place. Way neater than my room, at any rate. My parents would want to adopt you if they saw this, legit." Although being related to Jazzy would make dating her one day awkward... "Oh man, imagine us being related! We'd be like the brothers from Supernatural, only we wouldn't suck as characters. We would be the best characters, Jazzy. The fanfic would be legendary."
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Lot of loots in Jazzy's treasure chest. Her booty, so on and so forth. A couple of dog eared books, some soft and fuzzy things which Irene grasped at like a claw machine. Cat in the Hat, cute. Headless teddy, uh, formerly cute. A fat little parrot which had one of those solid brick things in it's back that meant it made a sound when hugged. Irene pressed on it's stomach. Ouch. Sounded like a Skrillex or Excision drop, somehow. Maybe this was how brostep-slash-dubstep was made. Irene squeezed on the stomach a few more times, seeking rhythm in vain. She only stopped when she was in danger of toppling over into the chest, having almost crumpled onto herself at the waist.

"Nah, if we were sisters that would make the two of us equal, and we certainly can’t have that."

True! Well not touching on stuff like older sisters who were too damn good for their own good. Would it have killed Asimah to be a mite less popular and talented and stuff like that? Or at least quiet down a little when she had some new flame over? Sheesh. If Irene had to play the less cool one to someone at the very least it could have been Jazzy instead.

"Well!" It was Irene's turn to talk haughty and stand proud. Only she was still digging around in the toy box, once more in danger of falling in. Lessons of the all-too recent past happily ignored. Her voice echoed out, "Don't you know that princesses are nicer and more likely to win the plot than queens? Her name is Princess Celestia, not Queen Celestia." Sage wisdom from Lauren Faust, something something little girls love princesses more. Emphasis on 'little girl', in Irene's case. A skip and a step and Irene was free of the toybox and she was smiling Jazzy's way and pointing a finger and neyner-neyner-neyner:

"So we'll see who gets the last laugh, my queen!" She snickered herself, daring her apparent superior to continue the act.
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Irene had spared a moment of silence for Pete the Parrot. She hadn't been silent, still shuffling herself not-so-carefully through the toys. But she'd thought she'd been silent.

Anyways. Hoping for an Irene laugh was a waste of neurons. Irene liked laughing, whether it was warranted or not. Chuckling. Giggling. Hysterics. In the span of some amount of moments she briefly flitted through all of those states while picking her options. Choices, choices, life was toy box to pick your fave out of! Irene settled for an affected guffaw, haughty as she swaggered her way over to the next thing in the room that distracted so adeptly. A bookshelf. Irene would flip through those book names like her finger was on a Yellow Pages. A book that had once existed, a reference that had once had meaning, according to her mother's stories that she barely payed attention to.

"The Queen forgets! I don't have a room in her household." Whole aborted 'lets be sisters' plan aside. Or whatever it had been. Some things were forgiven, some were forgotten. As long as Irene kept her near one-hundred percent win rate on that front, she would remain immune to all life threw her way. Maybe a friend or two lost in the shuffle, but she had plenty more! Screw the ones who betrayed their princess.

"Liberty or death! If you will not have my glory then have my head." Where had this act come from, anyways? Eh, who cared. It was fun. Barely ten minutes in and Irene's mouth was already getting that familiar 'smiling and laughing too much' pain that comes part of the package deal with friends and sleepovers. Like a vise clamped right over joints of chin and jaw. But hell, she was fighting for her freedom anyways. Even pain couldn't hold her down. She'd moved far enough, sauntered so that her eager digits were prying at the wood of Jazzy's bookshelf.

Irene's eyes flicked eagerly between book covers, looking at some twice and some not even once.
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Man Jasmine was such a nerd! That's why Irene liked her, totes. Prowling through the depths of gently dusted shounen and what seemed to be books from the school library. Jazzy was a thief? Irene didn't care, maybe except for the part where she got to imagine Jasmine awkwardly shuffling around with a book hidden flat in her sweater. The Irene approved methodology for book smuggling. Rated so highly for cuteness and inefficiency.

"Wha?" For a moment Irene had forgotten whose house this was. This could have been her bookshelf, her history books, save for the fact that she owned neither of those things in any abundance. Quantities as negligible as her attention span.

"[Blah blah blah] ... further insubordinance, I will need to exile you. Now, as a kind and forgiving queen, I will show my mercy and allow you to choose where you are exiled to."

Mrs. Bark's classroom? The Safeway Plaza? THE NEIGHBOR'S POOL.

"You have two options... [Blah blah blah]"

Blah.

"Naughty corner? Are you kidding me, Queen Jazzy? You and I both know I am the innocentest girl that has ever stepped foot in this household. Next time we're over at my house I'll show you my search history! Clean as a Cleansweep Seven." But what Irene obviously banked on was a little thing she liked to call Incognito Mode. That she forgot to use, anyways. Irene indulged herself in a confident saunter to her friend's side while Jasmine indulged herself in an attempt at modulated egotism. Pretty laugh. If a laugh were a physical object Irene would have totally let herself be distractedly led astray by it.

Like it stopped her, a little thing like abstraction. Irene bumrushed the door, moving right past Jasmine.

"Last one down is a rotten egg! And I'm fine!" Because she got herself a head start. Go go go go. Irene shambled for the stairs, daring to spread her arms to the walls to block a last second pass from her friend-slash-competitor (emphasis on both words at the same time) as Irene beeline-ed for downstairs at speeds with which she'd probably trip.
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Irene was the master of all video games where she had cheat codes. Like, in theory integrity was super important and Irene swore on her sister's fresh dug grave that she'd never cheat on a test or something. But what was also super important was making Jazzy EAT HER DUST! Besides, it wasn't like the race actually mattered or anything. Unless Irene won it, in which case it totally mattered. Victory was assured. She body blocked the walls and it was super effective, Jasmine had to awkwardly stumble behind her the whole way down. Guess what was behind Irene. Her dust. It was consumed.

"There is no fair in love and hate, yung Jazz!" Her mind's eye saw the 'yung' and young was thus yung. And the stock phrase was thus butchered to the gizzard. There was no fair. Only Irene's brilliant plan and-

A totally shitty twist.

"Oh man. Too obvious, Jazzy." About as obvious as the blitzkrieg head start had been. Irene was essentially miles from the couch that was spontaneously the finish line, she could only watch in brief despair as defeat was snatched from the jaws of victory. She wore a pout that crushed her lips. She'd had that one! Stupid technicality. Irene wasn't compelled to call it out, petulant and rebellious as she felt. No need to get so upset about something so minor and trivial when she didn't care about it in the long run.

"I'll get you next time." okay, still a little irked. But Irene quickly put on her best smile and meant it, bounced over to her friend's side and tossed herself onto the couch heartily. It was an explosion of Irene, taking half the cushions down with her. This was her element, right here, watching stuff on TV forever and ever. Yeah okay, maybe more Netflix and streaming sites nowadays than TV but it wasn't her fault America refused to catch up with the times and get anime on main channels.

"I may be the rotten egg but..." Quick. If she thought fast enough she might actually have been able to produce the words for a decent comeback. "I'm still sunny side up." Did that mean anything?
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Man, what a rude girl! Irene didn't care about or acknowledge that fact except on an intellectual level, much like her own less than well-mannered tendencies. Her brain chugged out something along the lines of 'oh hey that was probably not socially acceptable eeeeh who cares'. The gears of her cognition chugged on to other things. Milk or juice, those were things to chug. Irene had been a guest in Jazzy's house a couple of other times, she knew where the fridge was. If she acted fast enough she could unintentionally subvert Jasmine's possible attempts to be a good host.

Jazzy had watched Irene... whatever she'd just done? It was hard to tell, it had happened so fast. Irene hadn't taken the whole thing in anyways, suffering a limited viewpoint due to the unfortunate affliction of being herself at the time. Man, being herself though. Shit was tough, a hardship only she had ever known. Had occasionally reflected on while spread out like tapenade over her sheets with a thread count that was too damn high. What was tapenade, anyways? Where had she even heard that word? Asimah? She had to be sure to excise that shit from her brain the day before yesterday.

Back to the day before yesterday. Man this couch was comfy. It felt like home, though Irene rarely hung out on the living room couch back home so there was no direct comparison to be made.

“Yo I got lactic acid I'm so sore.” Irene began to melt into the upholstery, squishing her little body back into the cushions that were still sort of aligned. Exponential comfort, that was the ticket. Shoulders shrugged, fingers stretched and then relaxed. “But RIP on the other side of the couch. I hope you reflect on the sins you've committed this day.” Irene allowed her voice to be grave, buried under earth and mud and hyperbole. The theatrics never really did end with them. A couple of sentences later they'd probably be on some different wild tangent.

Like, uh. Usual.

“Maybe put on episode five, I think that's the one we both left off on? We can babble and half watch then get the focus on for the final episode.” Irene might have been misinformed, but she was throwing her totally glorious plan out there anyways. Something fleshy pressed into her cheek at that moment, Irene's reflexes caused her to loll away a bit with a shy smile playing at the corner of her lips. Then she realized what was up, and that smile found itself a whole playground to work with.

Oh. Touchy-touchy. Irene suddenly felt a little tense, felt the tremble of a palm in all too clear detail. Her throat was irritated by a breath playing hookie away from her lungs. Get down in there, dang it! Irene gulped down the stubborn air with a bit too much force, a nervous giggle bubbled out in half-tones. She initiated take off from airport 'the couch' (THC, in IATA code) with as much velocity as she'd had on her prior landing, kicking up more of a ruckus. She was unconsciously storming the kitchen, seeking a brief moment of refuge, seeking a brief moment of beverages (ideally milk or juice), before she remembered to ask:

“Gonna grab drinks from the kitchen, want any?”
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Man they were such lame girls. But that was part of the fun!

"There is no mercy, young one!" Irene couldn't exactly claim herself any better at improv than Jazzy. Wasn't the faux power dynamic supposed to be going the other way? To say nothing of the actual one. Irene was wandering off, exiting stage left with body and brain. Caught the correction as she meandered past door frame, feet drifting from carpeting to tile. Waxy. No point in not power sliding the rest of the way to the fridge. Repping the old grade school moonwalking attempts. Cause it's a killaaa, thrilla night-

"Wait, there are only three episodes?" Irene swore she'd watched more than three episodes when she'd backlogged the last season. But. She'd also watched more than three games of League at the same time. And her focus had definitely been going more one way than the other. Eh. Brain letting her down. Typical.

"Okay fine, three! You're right, you're always right, and you always will be!" Her response drifted out of the kitchen. Truer words had never been spoken from Djezari lips, probably.

She opened the fridge and let the cold snap over her like she was The Jets. She nearly shivered herself straight into the ajar door of the fridge. Never mind that, she had a moment to think. She'd come here mostly to secure drank- there it was, a cartoon of freshly unopened milk on the second shelf- but she also vaguely recalled... awkward feels. Flesh on flesh feels. Irene let her shy smile creep onto her face once more, not bashful about it now that there was no Jazzy in the immediate vicinity. She often touched people who weren't related to her, but only in a non-platonic sense. With all the flailing gesturing that was Irene's MO it was inevitable she grab people on the regular. But this time it had been different. What-slash-who were her crushes now? Danny Brooks, Chuck Walters, Ben Fields. The guys. Mary Santos, Hannah Kendrickstone, Jasmine Reed- wtf such pro nomenclature, King, Jasmine King. The girls. No need to discriminate between genders, cute was cute and stuff like that...

"No, it's fine."


"'Kay!"

AAAAAA-! It was so strange feeling. Last Irene had checked this much fluttery stomach contortion was a sign of hernia or peptic ulcer, not the ol' lovey-dovey. Stupid puberty. At least Irene had yet to say anything weird to any of the objects of her affections. Okay there was the rambling about anime and Homestuck around Mary, but in her defense that was half Mary's fault anyways. Around the other hot guys and gals her lips would be sealed. At least, she hoped they would be. One wrong impulse...

Irene grabbed the milk, and one cup. The cartoon was open with a fumbling flex of her fingers, and then Irene was back in her seat, legs crossed and butt shoved against one of the couch arms. She could have sworn there had been more space on the couch last time. She took her desired serving of dairy in crude gulps, left the milk in a median position between them. Not like Jazzy would take a drink with there having been only one cup. Though Irene gladly mused on immature thoughts of technical kissing via spit swap. Ew! Yet kinda...

"The time is now!" Irene weathered her blush with all of the grace she didn't posses. "We watch!" Her slightly spastic shifting in place meant her thigh breezed Jazzy's foot, in her sensitive state Irene snapped away right fast while her thoughts picked flower petals and the speed of the Daytona 500.
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Spirit of Jazzy guide her. It really was like she was everywhere on this couch at once, holding every position at once like quantum uncertainty. So many positions it was like the Kama Sutra. Damn, okay. Of all the references for her brain to dredge up it immediately had to ascend to the pinnacle of awkward. Irene shifted, shifted again. Like bedtime, it was impossible to feel entirely comfortable no matter where she was. Twist, turn, scream and shout, legs and arms tightly winding themselves together until her limbs were taffy. She just couldn't escape the overbearing fuzzies that being right next to her friendcrush scattered into the breeze like dandelions. Probably wouldn't come off as unusual. Irene was always so restless anyways, it was rare she could sit still for more than a minute at a time in class.

"Mmmph." Irene's ability to respond with witty repertoire only continued to devolve as she cleared her throat of drink:

"Okay fine, if you insist." Really she was glad for the moment off the couch. She hopped up, spring-loaded like a jack-in-the-box, half ran her way to the TV. It took a bit of fiddling. Model was way different from the ones in her own home. It didn't occur to her when she came back that she easily could have taken the floor and let Jazzy have the couch to herself. Wasn't like her to surrender so easily- or wisely- anyways. So she shoved herself back into her spot, awkward fidgeting and all.

"We watch!" Uh, questions. Irene didn't know this was going to be an interview, or she'd have practiced before hand! A palpitation of her ever quailing heart surged something out of her mouth. She forced her response as thus:

"When did you find the time to watch all the new season episodes anyways?" All five of them. Wait. Three. "I thought you were super busy this sem?"
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A cannonade of fanfare for Irene successfully conquering the TV. Well more along the lines of a boom clap, and probably an exaggerated one at that. Man, dredging the ironic sentiment out of all of the overly affected gestures got confusing sometimes. But it was Jazzy. She could have thrown a middle finger and honked a vuvuzela and Irene would have still felt thoroughly accomplished. She basked in the glow of her completely mundane success, all the way back to her perch atop couch cushion.

Hold up, Cumberbatch was in the way. New camera angle, there was Freeman. The boy himself.

"The game is League. The game is also something I just lost." Damn, the old brain just kept letting her down. Nothing new though. "And I don't procrastinate on my homework much. I usually get it done in class." Or outright never get it done, but that particular detail of Irene's academic life was something only privy to herself, as her parents unwisely trusted her too much to request a copy of her grades via mail. Hey, she had A's in all the important subjects! STEM life was the only life.

"Yeah, I guess we'll get busier in later years." An inkling occurred to Irene, one that was out of her mouth before she could even at least look Jazzy in the eye for it. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, watching for best character, glazed over like some Krispy Kreme.

"Don't get so busy that we stop seeing each other, yo? I've already lost a few of my friends like that this year." Slightly exaggerated sentiment of course, power of friendship and real friends never died and all those fluffy cliches. But Irene's casual, perpetually distracted tone didn't betray that what she'd just said had been some Grade A emotions. Figured they came out when they were least relevant. Yep, just a moment of not thinking, on top of the many other similar moments prior, and Irene had laid one of the childish weaknesses in her own armor bare. Eh. Probably wasn't too important a thought to dwell on. Even she herself wasn't bothering to pay it due diligence in tone.

Unconsciously Irene sought out a warm shelter, she was suddenly cuddling herself into Jasmine's leg, her stocky frame pushing against the closest thing that reminded her of a blanket.
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"And that's why I get better grades than you."

Oof. Irene was wounded. Made salty enough that she'd also suffer acute salt in the wounds. Comments like that were what the Supa Hot video meme was made for. Call her chestnuts on an open fire, because damn she was getting roasted. Other self-deprecating statements, etc.

"Heeeey, not fair." A brief moment of silence for the dead, or more likely so she could catch a bit of quiet dialogue coming out the speakers. "True you get better grades but... Uh, I'm not smart enough to come up with a comeback." Some of the most excellent banter ever witnessed by their young and nubile generation. Irene was going down in the history books for that one, probably. She'd be chilling pinkie out right in the margins where she'd doodled her name over and over again in fancy Tumblr RP level font during one of her more boring(er) classes that year. More loops per letter than a roller coaster, Djezari aesthetic, that.

A few more moments of silence passed, suffused by the non silence of cute-slash-hot British dudes.

And then Irene said the thing, and Jazzy said the things back. Words, syllables exchanged. Melodramatic pauses and ellipses to likely negligible effect.

Why was there suddenly an arm around her stomach? Felt awkwardly good. Goodly awkward. Jazzy's skin melted into the spots where it touched. Passing resemblance to flesh eating virus. Irene was endlessly fascinated with the sensation, as she had once been with the postmortem pictures of those who suffered with necrotic fusilli or whatever it was called. Irene trembled a bit, the fluttering of storm earth and fire that rippled through Jazzy's touch. Nelly sounded the clarion call, 'getting hot in here'. Man. This was what the protagonists of dime-a-dozen paperback romance novels were tossed through. Not like Irene read works of that literary definition. Often.

"Same. Couldn't get rid of me if you tried, Jazzy." Ominous? Irene entertained the vivid imaginings of herself chasing after Jasmine King angrily, or possibly lustily. Something something 'EAT MY DUST'. Stupid conceptualization in general, she dropped that train of thought but probably not fast enough. "I'll be here for as long as I can be, and longer. You can count on it. To quote my ninja way, 'believe it'." Irene's own way of making a promise. Her own truth. However long she could make it last, given her debilitated racehorse track record for maintaining promises to that date. She wriggled awkwardly a bit more, suddenly not entirely comfortable where she was. As much as she liked it she didn't like it and she was seeing in her mind's eye all sorts of unbidden things that draped fuchsia over the cheeks.

She strove to liberate herself with some struggle, slowly doing the worm in place until she had a section of couch to herself. The action on screen lulled.

"So how about you?" The usual awkward segue, the doctor's defibrillator on the heart of conversation complete with harsh and dramatic camera angle. Just like the one on screen right now! "What's the latest up with you? Besides apparently grinding me into the dust in terms of our ABCs."
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Irene got the sense that she might have asked that question? The words had already been spilling out of her mouth in a spittle potpourri. Only then, after the fact, did she feel fit to appraise the worth of the expended effort. The calories burned to flap her lips, one syllable at a time. She remembered back to events that didn't really matter and were already forgotten. Wait, fuck, that meant she couldn't remember them if they were already forgotten. Oh well. Best to assume the extremely generic conversational point was fresh territory to explore. Yeah, for sure.

And Jazzy had answered. Obviously that meant the question made perfect sense and was scientific genius, etc.

"Hm?" Something bothering Jasmine? Come to think of it there was probably always something bothering her. She was just that kind of girl.

Oh. Okay.

"Well..." And here the 'weh' of well surged up and down a full octave: "If you want to get technical about it Mary was there before you, she was just busy with Doctors Without Borders first sem." Ah, the other BFF. Best Furry Friend. Wait no, that one was an in-joke (in theory solely hypothetical) that didn't apply to Jazzy. Yet.

Hypothetical.

"Mary's one of my friends from middle school and she has the same lunch period as us. So she hangs around. If all the talking about webcomics is a drag sorry. We can save it for Tumblr, or try to I guess." Mary was another one of the 'senpai notice mes', and unlike Jazzy Irene felt safe cuddling into Mary's girth. Up and drowning in it, pretty much. Theirs was a happy and storied friendship. But on the other hand, Jazzy was hot. And pretty cool herself. Was this what being in a romcom was like? Irene didn't want to die of cardiac arrhythmias at a young age! She was already as far enough from Jasmine as was humanly possible on this little couch but she still felt too close, like Jasmine's body heat was suffusing into a thick and damp haze around Irene's skin.
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Like. Too bad the answer wasn't, 'oh we're lesbian lovers'. Would have made a good story. Especially for the girls involved in the happily gay and supremely redundantly described coupling. Imagine, like. All the likes on the Facebook relationship update.

Give that at least two thumbs up. Like this episode of 'Martin Freeman: the serial', a pair of fingernails to the sky. Background noise it was, but most things were background noise when Irene's brain was involved.

"What if I told you I hang out with other girls besides you from time to time?" It was an honest question, posed with the most crystal clear of tones, bottled and sold by Coca-Cola Corp. Irene didn't intentionally mean to come off as sarcastic, that would imply she even had the inherent capacity to ever do so. Irene began to slowly slough off the couch. Kinda just melted, bit by itty bitty Irene bit, onto the floor. Right underneath Jazzy's nose, where she probably rightly belonged. It was just easier, kinda. She could have just done this immediately. But hey, why not awkwardly fidget in place for at least a few minutes? Before evacuating the dance floor with her shameful two left feets.

"So yeah, middle school. Normally Maria and I hung out after school and played vidya after class. I am pretty sure-" hence probably wrong- "that we never really did afterschool stuff together until... mid eighth grade? Whenever the time was that Mrs. Anders blew a mega epic gasket at me for texting in class, I think those happened around the same time." Huh. Weird that Irene remembered the events that happened so often to her as to be background noise. And unlike Sherlock she didn't even like that particular static effusion of academic authority.

"Ya get me? I'm pretty sure I got the timeline right, like you can quote me with my hand on a bible for this one. I solemnly swear I am up to no good." Wait fuck. She'd mixed the references. Harry Potter and the Inauguration Day was probably not a thing. Probably. Last Irene had checked.
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