notes: just a short, goofy little piece i've had bouncing around in the ol' noggin for a while. not much conflict. too much fluff. whatever. just two kids, austin's terrible judgement, and some spray paint.

sometimes it feels like i only dream in black and white

wilted pleasures leave you with a breath/ i can see the beauty in the mess — best friend, foster the people

There is a reason you normally don't listen to Austin.

Austin is reckless and impulsive and really, really stupid. He is your polar opposite, burning with white hot enthusiasm. Always laughing and grinning mischievously whilst impatiently tugging on your arm, whispering, "Hey, Als, I've got an idea."

Normally, you shrug him off. But this time you don't — maybe because Austin made it sound so, so good when he whispered it in your ear. You can't help yourself. He's your best friend, and he may be a troublemaker but he'd never do anything to hurt you or get you in trouble, so. You say okay.

You know it's wrong. God, if your mother finds out she's going to absolutely kill you. She despises Austin; she's despised him since the day you introduced her to him, when you were eleven and he was twelve and covered in scratches and dirt from hopping fences, grinning from ear to ear. He's bad for you, Allison, she'd said. You're very smart, darling, but you're a terrible judge of character.

But momma, you'd pleaded with her, eyes watering, he's my best friend.

You're fifteen now, and he's sixteen, and your mother was right — Austin Moon is terrible for you, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

Austin knocks on the door of your sixth period class and smiles politely at the teacher. "May I please borrow Ally Dawson for a little while? We're interviewing her for yearbook and we really need to meet our deadline."

He's not even in yearbook.

Austin holds your hand the entire way, his long, pale fingers interlocked with yours. It's not a romantic gesture, not really; it's just the way your friendship is, how it's always been. You two have been flitting around something bigger than either of you can even imagine. It's too complicated, and too dangerous — you're the only person he's loyal to in the world but if your mother found out she'd have Austin's head on a stick for, like, ruining you or whatever.

So, you're friends. Best friends, forever and ever.

He leads you outside, where the air is muggy and the sky is grey and angry, rumbling with thunder and promising a storm. You follow him around the back of the building to the brick wall dividing the restrooms located in the back of the school, where nobody ever goes except to fuck or smoke.

Austin lets go of your hand for a moment to drop his backpack and open it eagerly, revealing a few shiny new cans of spray paint. You frown at him.

"We really shouldn't be doing this," you tell him honestly, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable.

"Since when have I ever followed the rules?" he asks you, grinning sincerely from ear to ear and god, you love him, you love him, you love him. Nobody's smile will ever reassure you and make your heart stutter like his does.

He crouches down, shaking the can of red paint profusely before standing tall and stepping back, grinning at the clean brick wall. An empty canvas. And then he gets to work. At first it looks like nothing, just a mess of red lines, but soon it becomes clear he's drawing a heart — it's terribly misshapen and hilarious, but then, right smack in the center he writes A + A. He turns eagerly to you, grinning proudly upon completing his masterpiece, like a child presenting his latest art project to his parents. It's messy and childish and so very Austin that you kind of want to cry, but you also kind of want to laugh, and so you do both.

"Your turn," he says as he hands you the can.

"Austin, I can't -"

"Ally Dawson, there is nothing in this world that you can't do. Now, enough putting yourself down. I wanna see your skills."

He has misunderstood. It's not that you physically can't, but that you just can't, you shouldn't. You're a good person, not a miscreant. See: everything Austin Moon is not. Still, his affectionate words and gentle smile make your heart swell.

You hesitantly take the spray paint from his hand and spray a smaller heart, trying to get the feel of it, before spraying a flower that starts small and spreads bigger and bigger, blooming like your heart. It's kind of fun, actually. So then you spray two little stick figures, a boy and a girl because that's really all you've ever been decent at drawing. It's stupid and childish and your cheeks start heating up because you've never felt more naked.

And then he kisses you and everything about it screams soft. His eyes flutter shut and his eyelashes tickle your skin and his lips are soft and the pressure of his lips is almost nonexistent on yours, tasting like cherry Coke and Twizzlers and Austin.

You're so startled to drop the spray can, the clang of metal against cement almost painfully loud in the still silence.

And then it all goes to shit.

"Miss Dawson!" The counselor's voice come out surprised, as if she's been caught off guard, too. "I have to say I've come to expect this behavior from Mister Moon, but I'd have thought you knew better. Perhaps you're just not a very good judge of character?"

And it would all be okay, except now you're mad. You're tired of people saying you're a bad judge of character for being friends with Austin, as if he's not a human being. He's not perfect and he tends to make terribly stupid decisions but he's got the biggest heart you've ever known and he's your friend, your best friend and you love him so much sometimes you think your heart might burst.

You are known throughout the community of teachers at school as the most polite student they've ever known, but you glare at her the entire way to the office, and you completely snap and coldly shut them down when the principal considers letting you off with a warning.

They deserve it.

Being stuck in detention is not nearly as fun as Austin made it out to be.

The teacher watching you clearly considers you all the worst of the worst, the failures of your generation, as insignificant as gum on the bottom of somebody's shoe. You're not permitted to talk to each other, so you sigh sadly and brush off the multiple whispers of Ally, Ally, over here, hey, Ally until Austin finally gives up, slumping down dramatically in the desk.

It's pretty awful, really. You sit with your head resting on your hand, doodling mindlessly. You don't quite understand how Austin can spend almost all of his afternoons and sometimes his weekends here — unless, like, they pull some Breakfast Club shit out of their asses on weekends.

The teacher excuses himself to go down to the copy room, threatening to have anyone expelled that he catches ditching or talking. He's full of it. You roll your eyes.

He's barely even out the door when Austin hurries over and slides coolly into the desk next to you.

"Hi," he whispers, earning him several glares from the other occupants of the classroom.

You give him a small smile and a tiny wave. "Hi."

"They're probably gonna make us stay till midnight cleaning up the graffiti."

"Yeah."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No." You shake your head rapidly, eyes wide.

"Are we still best friends?"

"Of course. Best friends. Always."

He looks like he's about to say something but then the teacher is waking back in so Austin just whips his head around and pretends to be working on an assignment for Physics. You think you can see 2+2=4 somewhere on his paper and you shake your head, smiling fondly.

When the teacher looks away, he reaches over and grabs your hand, twines your fingers together. He's still got spots of red paint on his palm and you watch it smears onto your hand.

Embarrassed, Austin moves to tug his hand away and clean the paint off, but you just grab his fingers and put your hand back in his.

He's bad for you. You're never going to get into a good school with him distracting you with trivial little things like this.

But he's your best friend — your stupid, reckless, impulsive best friend, and you love him, and you're never letting him go.

Not if you can help it.