the light hits your eyes like a fucking laser from space, beamed down to punish underage drinkers with bad hang-overs.
"What the fuuuuuuuuck..." you mumble, distress and overall displeasure thick in your voice.
Your name is ...
Fuck, you are not fully conscious enough to remember.
Regardless of what your name is, your (hopefully) temporary memory loss and excruciating headache are all a result of drinking copious amounts of alcohol the previous night. Four Lokos is not your friend, no matter what your brother says.
Speaking of brothers, where the fuck is yours?
It all comes back to you in a rushed sudden blast of memory. The party you and Jack attended. That random blonde you did body shots with. And the girl of your dreams who you severely pissed off in exchange for a quick fuck with big tits.
Your name is Erik Dole, and you have royally fucked up.
You open your big gray eyes and look around. Currently, you are surrounded by baby blue tiles and what appear to be various shower fixtures. It would seem you are in a bathroom and, judging by its cleanness, it is not your own.
You have also determined that there is a heavy, warm weight on top of your chest. Further investigation reveals it to be your previously mentioned brother. The young teen is curled up in fetal position with his arms encircling your chest. A soft, unhappy groan escapes his lips.
"Jack. Jaaaaaaaack..." you slur out, head still pounding. Your bro doesn't stir. You tap him lightly on the head and repeat his name. He whines distressedly and rubs his face into your chest. He mumbles something softly, but you don't quite catch it.
"Care to repeat that?" you reply with a slight smirk. But he looks up at you and the smirk slides right off your face as you furrow your brows in confusion. This kid is not your little brother.
He could very well be his duple-ganger, though. They have the same dull blue eyes and his hair is just a slightly darker brown then Jack's. They seem about the same age, so this brat is probably 16-ish.
"Who'r you?" He mumbles, his eyes squinted with dark circles around them.
"I'm pretty sure I should be asking that. You know, considering the fact that you are sleeping on me" you retort with a smirk. He acts just like your dipshit brother, too.
"Oh, err... right, sorry. I'm Alex." he says, rolling of your chest and sitting up. he rubs the sleep from his eyes. You sit up to and are rewarded with a slight head rush.
"Erik" you say, standing up in the bathtub you two had previously been sleeping in. You extend a hand to help the younger boy up and he takes it with a small, grateful smile. This kid probably had just as rough a night as you did. Then a distressing thought hits your brain like a 20 ton truck.
Where the FUCK is Jack?
If you don't come home with him, Frank is gonna be pissed, and that prick is already hard enough to deal with when he's in a good mood. Losing your baby brother would probably make his head explode and, while you would love to watch THAT happen, you can't help but worry about what's happened to your younger, naive sibling.
A knock on the bathroom door and a soft, questioning voice answer your internal question.
"E? Bro, you in there?" someone that sounds suspiciously like Jack asks from behind the door. You and Alex exchange confused looks and you open the door to see the short teenager standing there with his stupid shades on and a different shirt on then the one he had when you last saw him. He also has a new addition to his neck; a small, five pointed star with a smaller heart at its center.
"Oh god... Please say its fake." You say, burying your face in your hands to hide the offending tattoo from your sight. A few seconds of silence assures you that its not, and you look up to see Jack worrying his lower lip between his teeth, avoiding your eyes from behind the buddy-holly type shades with his arms firmly crossed in front of his chest. He looks like a child who knows they did wrong and is just waiting for the belt which is surely coming for their ass. Jack lets out a small puff of breath and averts his gaze to his blue and red converse.
"Dad's gonna kill me..." he mumbles to no one in particular, his voice cracking mid-sentence. He's been doing that a lot, ever since he started puberty. Normally, he would get all embarrassed and blushy, but it seems his mind is to preoccupied to worry about his usually flawless outer-image. You flick him lightly on the nose to bring his attention back to you, pulling him from what was surely a disastrous train of thought.
"Noooooooo... Frank'll just ground you. He's gonna execute me," you correct poking him in the chest for emphasis. Sometimes you really could just kill this kid.