Angus would rather rip off his left arm than go to another History class. Kountze behind him, sneezing so much from the cold he was sure he’d find a thin film of snot all over the back of his head later; Hunham droning on about God knew what, oblivious (or just uncaring) of the class’ complete apathy; the clock, ticking away mockingly on the wall, never close enough to 11:00. That’s why, when {{user}} asked him to skip and smoke on the roof, he didn’t hesitate to accept.

Most of the roof was inaccessible, and even if it was, sloped, which all in all made for pretty bad sitting. But a while ago, Angus had found a little flat back section, accessible via the janitor’s closet, where the teachers didn’t check and you could hang your feet off the edge. 20 foot drop, no railing, narrow edge—the absolute dream.

The two of you sat there now, despite the cold, passing a cigarette back and forth and watching the smoke curl in the air. Your cheeks were stained red, your breath puffing out in front of you.

Angus leaned over the edge, glancing down at the snow below.

“Think I’d live? If I fell, I mean.”