March 19, 2015

Jerome:

Wow. Mitch passed the fuck out as soon as we found our seats. His head's pressed against the little window and his mouth is open just far enough for a little trail of drool to run outta the curve where his lips meet. Fucking ice cold window is more comfortable than the headrests on this cheap ass airplane. He has a list of classic rock and random indie songs on shuffle on his phone and we each have an earbud in, our last pitiful attempt to pass the hours and hours between Ireland and Florida. Just like the good ol' times on the bus home from school. Lachlan's sprawled out like a dead man in the end seat with his head thrown back like he's gonna start howling like a werewolf. It doesn't help that he looks terminally pissed off when he sleeps. The poor stewardess stares at him and his Macklemore hack job every time she walks past. We're a scary ass sight, all dressed in matching green St. Patty's Day hoodies with an army of laptops getting shuffled around whenever someone decides to wake up and smell the chodenuts. The only one who doesn't look like a complete fucking Creeper is Mitch, and I'm pretty sure he's hungover again.

This trip's been something else. It's like nothing changed. But everything changed, too. We're the same goofy assholes we've always been but underneath there's this... I guess I'd call it understanding? Acceptance? We both know what happened when we were drunk off our asses but there was no time or place to talk about it during the trip when a mob of six guys could walk in at any time and royally fuck us over. He's still my best friend – always has been, always will be – but now he's a whole lot more than that, too. You don't run two and a half bases just to go slump back down on the bench and pick the gum off the bottom of your seat. No, we definitely got somewhere with this. I'm just not sure if I should be happy about it or not.

I'm not into the whole friends-with-benefits thing. That shit never ends well. I didn't mean for it to happen this way but I guess progress is progress, even if it means double-cheating with your best friend on your girlfriends. Nothing about this whole situation is what it seems, though, and if what I had with her was real, things'd be a whole lot different between me and Mitch right now. When I got back together with Helen, we didn't a hundred percent get back together. We'd broke it off on good terms and we're still Facebook friends, and it just so happened both of us had people we were trying to make jealous. People who wouldn't listen. People who wouldn't stop and think for a second. People who were afraid of how other people would react. It isn't every day you find out your ex-girlfriend's had more girl trouble than you have. But maybe I'm not a good indicator since I'm heading in the opposite direction. Damn, that's weird to think about.

It's been a while but I finally came to terms with me being ultra-mega-super-gay for Mitch. I know part of the reason he's so reluctant to give me a chance is because he still thinks I'm in love with Michelle, and in a way I am. I'm in love with the pieces of him that've always been there and I've learned to let go of the pieces that never really fit. To be completely honest, he hasn't changed all that much on the inside – we've both just grown up. A little bit. Michelle was just a mask he hid behind because he was afraid of what'd happen if he took the costume off, and now that he grew out of it I have infinitely more respect for him. I love him that much more. He just refuses to see that and it hurts so fucking much, man. It stabs me in the heart to know he doesn't really trust me. But Mitch doesn't trust anyone.

---

March 20, 2015

Mitch:

"Noooo. There's nothing good at the house," Lachlan gripes as he watches the illuminated windows of his favorite Chipotle pass by his window on the dark street. We all know he is going to grab the keys and drive back over here as soon as we unlock the garage door, but Jerome just likes to torment him and hear him bitch like a baby. I'll admit it's hilarious, maybe a little to the left of cruel. I'm just a little concerned with how deep his Chipotle addiction goes and whether or not he's going to need counselling when he finally catches his flight home five weeks from now. Soon, it will just be Jerome and me at the house, and I can't tell if I'm dreading it or looking forward to it.

"There's Chef Boyardee and soup and pasta and frozen pizzas and... well, the chicken's definitely outta-bounds now. But there's still stuff. You'll find somethin', buddy." I look in the rearview mirror and see that Lachlan is pouting while he looks down at his phone, checking up every now and then to see if someone is looking so he can give them his famous pitiful puppy eyes. It doesn't work on me.

"No, I woooon't. Can't we just stop and get something? Nobody wants bloody canned mystery meat when decent places are still open. We'll save that crap for the nuclear fallout, or when Poofless visits and tries to eat your actual fridge."

"Lil' Lachy, no one else wants to spend half of tomorrow on the pot philosophizing about the meaning of life. You're outnumbered, outgunned, and outplayed," Jerome says sternly, like a parent trying to explain to a selfish kid why they can't get a puppy for Christmas.

"Fuck off, mate." Jerome snickers at his childish whining as he finally turns on the pitch black street leading into our subdivision and presses the little remote for the cast iron gates. Lachlan huffs and starts digging around in the backseat to grab his collection of bags, preparing to run inside, drop off his crap, and make it back out to the car before we shut the garage door. The Bacca ruins that plan by shutting the door while he is still pulling into the garage, a wide, cheesy smile plastered on his face while Lachlan sends him a death glare in the mirror.

"There ya go, friendo. Now you can go getcha some foodsiedoodles."

"You're a couple fucking sopping cun-" I don't hear the rest of what he's muttering as he throws the car door open and stomps out, waiting awkwardly by the door for me to let him inside. I toss him the keys and he's off, zooming through the house to put his stack of bags upstairs before we can somehow take the car from him.

"Someone doesn't like airplanes," I laugh as I start grabbing random bags from the trunk, throwing straps over my shoulders and slipping handles on my arms so that Jerome can get all of the rolling bags. We have done this so many times that it is just routine. We will sort through everything in the morning when we start giving a shit and when we realize we have no deodorant or clean underwear.

"I feel sorry for his poor mom next month. Worst fucking April Fool's prank ever. I wonder what he's gonna do when he wakes up the next morning and realizes they don't have Chipotle on the same continent as him."

"Dood, he already has so much Chipotle stashed Down Under that he can barely walk." Jerome breaks out laughing at the top of his lungs and he puts the bags down on the ground so he can bend over and catch his breath. Lachlan walks back into the garage a few seconds later with the spare car keys in his hand and a snotty, confused expression on his face. He hits the button to reopen the garage door as he worms past us to get in the driver's seat of the car. We grab the bags and head inside, and Jerome stops in the kitchen to wipe the tears out of his eyes.

"Do you think he really...? Oh my fucking god! I bet he does! I bet he really does!"

"Can you imagine how much that would hurt? Those things are fucking massive." He wiggles his eyebrows and licks his lips, pretending to reach behind himself and pull his pants down off of his bony hips. I can't deny that the image of Jerome bending over to take it is pretty appealing. I highly doubt he would ever go for something like that, though, not after rubbing naughty bits with Little Miss Muffet. Whatever she has, it's probably contagious. "Why don't you go upstairs with him and join him so you can let me know how it goes?"

"You'd like that, huh?"

"Hell, no. I draw the line at McDonald's burritos, dood. Anything bigger than that would land you either in the ER or on PornHub." He starts dying again and I already know what we have to do; it was meant to be. "Do we have any foil?"

"I-I dunno, Benj. I just... Why? Why you hafta do this to me?" He's gasping for breath like a fish out of water and his face is fire engine red. I set the rest of the bags aside in the middle of the empty dining room floor and I head into the kitchen, pulling the roll of aluminum foil out of the cupboard and the rancid chicken out of the poor, neglected fridge. Jerome sets the rolling suitcases against the wall and comes over to watch, his dark eyes filled with tears and greed. I carefully wrap the grey, spotted chicken breasts in the foil and roll them up until they look somewhat like a Chipotle monster burrito. This is the epitome of multitasking: we're pranking and offending Lachlan and cleaning out the fridge at the same time.

"Where did those condoms go?"

"The extra fruity ones? I think they're in my room. Didn't want Cocky Lachy Dachy to see 'em."

"Well, we're going to need a few, maybe more." We grab the bags and head upstairs with Lachlan's new toy in tow, and we gather around the tiny sink in Jerome's bathroom, searching through the variety pack of condoms to find the extra-extra-large ones advertised on the packaging. We take turns holding the slimy, lemon-lime scented, shining silver phallus while the other person slides another condom on the other end. "I think this might be the best early birthday present ev-er."

"It's gonna take until August to get rid of the stench. Remember the water balloons?"

"Marley was so pissed off at us. She paid like thirty dollars for those and they just... blew up in her face."

"All forty of 'em! You know what they say, Mitch: money doesn't grow on trees, but you can always put rubbers on a tree."

"You can put rubbers on anything. How are we going to do this now? Do we wait until he gets home and smack him with it, or what?" Jerome takes the heavy, slick, multicolored burrito in his hands and twirls it around like a football, sending a breeze of citrus-scented air through the bathroom to cover up the smell of the rotten meat.

"I say we wait until he's asleep and sneak in his room with it."

"I'll give you twenty bucks if you get it in his pants." He stops and looks at me and thinks about it for a few seconds before he bobs his head in approval.

"You buy me chicken katsu, I'll make sure to get in his pants for ya. Deal?"

"That sounds like a deal, mate." We shake our wet, lube-covered hands and both cringe at the squelching feeling. He sets the huge, squishy package in the sink and turns the light off, trying to wipe the goo from the condoms on his jeans as he walks. It doesn't seem to be working. I follow him back downstairs and scrub the thick, gelatinous lube off of my hands with dish soap before I take his phone from him and open the app for the Hawaiian restaurant he is obsessed with. I just wish we could post the prank video on YouTube without getting reported thousands of times for indecency. The usual order is barely submitted by the time we hear the garage door open and close for the third time, and Lachlan strolls in with his paper bag of crack. He stops and looks at us looking at him before he frowns and reaches into the bag for another chip.

"What did you guys do?"

"Us? We didn't do nothin', mate. We got us a dinner date."

"We just ordered our food and now we're just waiting for them to breed the chickens. We're so glad you're home, Lachy." He stops chewing and slowly looks around the dark room, checking to see if Ryan or someone is going to jump out and bite him. He sidesteps over to the other end of the bar and sits down, still searching around him for a tripwire or a camera or some sign that he is about to get jump scared. He doesn't take his eyes off of us as he grabs the burrito out of the bag and starts to unwrap it, his cheeks flushing pink when he bites into it. Something is definitely up with that. "How is that burrito, dood?"

" 'S fine. Twelve outta ten, mate." Jerome and I turn and trade a smile, and Lachlan's eyes widen in horror. He rewraps his food, stuffs it back in the bag, and silently heads upstairs to his bedroom. We watch him go with a wave, but he never looks back.

"He is so fucked," I laugh as I hand Jerome his slimy phone back and he snickers as he scans his home screen, sees the six missed texts from Helen, and decides to lock his phone. I knew she wasn't his type. She even bores him to death when they're hundreds of miles apart; nothing can compete with this.

"Literally, metaphorically, physically, and mentally, Mitch. He's fucked with a PH and a D."

"You got your PhD, Biggums?"

"Yeah. I got it from Fuckery University in Australia. They gave it to me when they called to get their only YouTuber back."

"Savage, mate."

"Absolutely savage. He's gonna be feral."

---

March 20, 2015

Jerome:

"It's time." I duck my head in the living room and see Mitch sitting upside down on the couch with his smelly fucking feet hanging off the back of the headrest. He was half-asleep watching something on his phone but the thought of pranking Lachlan snaps him right out of it. I swear a third of the bad ideas are his, a third are mine, and a third just magically spawn when you stick us together. Who the hell thinks of shit like this?

"Are you sure he's asleep?"

"Like ninety-eight percent sure. He was snorin' when I came downstairs thirty seconds ago. His door's locked, too." He nods and swings himself around so he's on his feet. He stretches as he walks past me to the kitchen and I catch myself frowning when I see he's wearing saggy ass pajama pants instead of his usual skinny jeans. I feel like I just got cockblocked and we aren't even getting it on. This guy really knows how to fuck with my head and I don't even think he knows he's doing it. Dammit, Mitch. He gives me a weird look when we get to the kitchen. Maybe he caught me staring. Not like it's a big surprise now, anyways.

"We're doing this Fallout-style: I'll pick the lock and hold the flashlight if you go in with the Fat Man."

"Perfectamundo, Benj. He's gonna be so pissed."

"Just get it in there and run before he can duke you one."

"What'd ya think I was gonna do? Let him break my nose? I need this face to live off of." He raises his eyebrows at me with a sarcastic smile and fishes a flathead screwdriver and the flashlight out of the junk drawer. "You're just jealous you're not beautiful like me."

"I just don't have the talent you do, Jerome."

"It's all in the genes. And the jeans." He turns to look at me and I make the prettiest fucking face I can muster and he laughs quietly before we start creeping upstairs. He stops and fiddles with the cheap lock on Lachy's door while I creep down the hall to grab his new butt plug. As soon as I open the door to my room, I catch a whiff of the horror awaiting me in the bathroom and I immediately know I'm not gonna be sleeping in here tonight – this baby's been in here too long. I get a good grip on it and hurry back down the hall. Mitch slowly opens the door without a sound and turns the flashlight on against his leg, carefully turning it so we can see where we're going. He goes in first and stands off to the side, illuminating the road to victory ahead of me.

Lachlan's shirt and pants are on the floor in front of his computer set-up and he's sleeping in his undies with the covers kicked off to the side and an empty guacamole container on the nightstand. Totally not creepy as fuck. What does this guy get up to in here when we think he's eating dinner and editing? Lucky for us, he ended up falling asleep on his side facing his beloved paper bag. Just makes the whole plan that much easier. I carefully lean over the side of the bed being lit up by the flashlight and gently pull the waistband of his tighty-whiteys back. The fruity, moldy smell is just too much and I have to hold my breath as I inch the room temperature chicken-y rectangle down his ghost-white crack. Never thought I'd be so happy to see Lachlan's ass before. The greasy condom shell slides against his skin and leaves a shiny trail as it moves to rest between his cheek and the poor bed. I can hear Mitch behind me trying not to lose his shit and I have a flashback to the good ol' days in Jersey. Our sisters still hate the fuck outta both of us.

"Move!" Mitch yell-whispers and I dart outta the way to go stand next to him so we can watch the whole nightmare unfold. Lachlan arches his back away from the cold, squishy monster and he groans as he starts to wake up. He tries to move again and when that doesn't work, he reaches behind him to see what's slimin' him up.

"Nnnnnn... What're you guys doing? Go to bed." He sighs and tries to turn to look to see what we're doing, but rolling over wasn't a good idea on his part. His eyes widen when his ass lands on the fruity, chicken-y blob and he jumps up like a cat and tries to run away from it. "Naw! Naw! N-aaaaaww! What the bloody fuck did you do?! Why would you do this?!" He looks like a little kid having a temper tantrum, jumping and down as he tries to fish the giant lump outta his panties. Me and Mitch are dying laughing while he grabs it, takes one look, and drops it and screams. It bounces on the bed and a fresh wave of the stench flows through the room.

"We... We got you dinner! It... it's your... favorite!" Mitch chokes out around his hysterical sobs and I see Lachlan shooting us The Death Glare From Hell through my tears. He stomps over and grabs us by our shirts and throws us out of his room, and I sidestep so he doesn't peg me in the chest with his burrito dildo.

"Fuck you guys. I fucking hate you."

"Love ya, too, Little Lachers. 'Night, buddy." He flips us the double bird and slams the door behind him and locks it again, like that'd stop us if we decided to come back for more. He should know better by now. Living with us is like a nonstop episode of Punk'd mixed with What Would You Do? and Fear Factor. He's not too smart if he still trusts us. He's still muttering to himself on the other side of the door when Mitch walks over to my room and grabs the hand towel from the bathroom and gently places Lachlan's new toy on its mini bed right in front of his door. Maybe if we're lucky, he'll step on it in the dark and pop it.

"Dood, your room is rancid as fuck. You should open the window tomorrow to air it out."

"Yeah, I was thinkin' about that. It smells like ass. And regret. And the Black Plague." I can already smell it out here in the hall and it's so strong I can actually taste it. That's fuckin' nasty, man. "I'll see ya in the morning."

"Bonne nuit. We're still doing the gum challenge tomorrow, so set your alarm or something." He walks back downstairs to turn the lights off and probably grab something else to feed his black hole stomach. I go in my smelly ass bedroom and hesitantly close the door behind me. I wash my hands off and shut the bathroom door, but that shoulda been at the top of my list like eight hours ago when I put the lemony chicken dildo in there. I change my clothes and flop down on the new bed and pull my shirt and the sheets and the bedspread and a Pikachu blanket up over my face to hide the stench. But it doesn't work. Not even close. I lay there for another five minutes before I can't take it anymore. There's no way I can sleep with this shit hangin' over me like a cloud of Agent Orange. I don't even bother grabbing a pillow when I leave. It all smells like imminent death. I head over to Mitch's room and faceplant on his bed and throw the covers up over my head, hoping against hope he'll take pity on me and not make me sleep on the foot-scented couch downstairs. I'm already halfway asleep when he reappears and nudges my leg with his foot. "You're in the wrong room again, dood."

"No, I'm not. I don't have a room anymore." He sighs and a few seconds later I hear him walk over to the other side of the bed and get in. We've done this like three hundred times since we were kids, so why does it feel so different all of a sudden? Why does it feel so much warmer in his room?