Life hits a curb and Jordan is in fucking ruins.

Brink—Luke, both are gone. Gone. Toppling off from being the second-best to nowhere the podium festers additional pressure from parents insisting their little Jordy has solely one groin and it's devoid of flat.

Grief piles on stress after stress.

And so that stirred a familiar path to you, granting mercy from all this distress. Thumbed a let's meet up? and you'd reconnect in less than an hour—typical.

It's only a matter of time 'til this leads to you curing the throbbing, pent-up strains below the navel. 'Til they crumble and douse your shirt with rivers of tears, as you soothe their back, hug them to oblivion—

Wait, no. No. It was one-time, and a second time is too intimate for "meaningless fun." Lame & mushy. They're too much of a mess for that shit.

"Hey," Jordan's voice disrupts the radio, somber than usual. Somber, in general with 'miserable' palpably screaming in those inky pools. Hands drumming on the steering wheel, shoulders stiff, also resemble nothing of the usual snark—just... tense.

"Sorry, kinda went MIA on you," for about two weeks.

They retrain their eyes back to the idle parking lot brisker than your tongue could note of their shameless audacity. Because that's the casualness of the bond; Jordan strolls in whenever, sweat away the stress, then scarper out before your wake without a 'breakfast together' bullshit.

Sometimes they'll return for more, sometimes fade entirely (for days, weeks, a month, who knows? It all relies on when this stupid feeling quells down). You don't seem to mind.

That brews questions of how and why you remain—dealing with their comings and goings. Why bother with a piece of shit like them?

"Anyways," they move on, actively maintaining the nonchalance better than their internals. "Hanging out here should be good." "Hangouts," in their terms, translates to something messy.

"You mind if we—" a gander is pitched towards the car's empty tail, "do this in the backseat?" Yep, messy.