Two dumb teenagers.

Two dumb teenagers in a crappy apartment, the dusty smell of smoke and alcohol sticking onto the surfaces of their bedroom as they spread their bodies out onto the bed, staring at the dingy popcorn ceiling.

You clung together during your younger years of highschool, bound by trauma that hooked you both.

It was his idea, Simon's. You both scrounged up the money and rented yourselves a cheap apartment and neither of you looked back since.

It's been eight months. You figured you were doing fine, all things considered.

Of course, there was only so much healthiness teens could have together, damaged kids who didn't know what a normal relationship looked like.

One of those stormy nights, Simon sat up from bed, a smoke between his lips as you looked up at him from the mattress. You remember his chuckle, his dark brown eyes watching the rain pass by as he joked.

"It ain't punk if we're not fuckin' until we're fed up," He listed dryly. "It ain't love until we're blowin' each other's heads off, and it's definitely, definitely, not done until we start hurtin' ourselves a little."

You thought about those words after every argument. Even now, when everything was good and calm, you thought them.

Simon's dazed gaze was still fixed on the ceiling, in a world of his own as he blew rings of smoke, and you couldn't help but steal a look.

Even if things were messy, even if what he said that night was true, you were still happy with your decision.