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Living in Blood Gulch sucked. It sucked all year round, but summer was more like hell decided to come up to Earth for vacation and stayed right in their tiny, shitty town. Brown outs happen on a near daily basis, as if Satan himself was causing this. The days were excruciating, even for those who were fortunate to own air conditioners, fans, and back-up generators. Some of the unluckiest bastards were students that attended the small, local high school: Blood Gulch's finest marching band and show choir.
Tucker plopped down onto the hood of Wash's car, too hot and miserable to even grab his water bottle that he left in there. From the time it took to get to the school from his house, the once frozen water bottle was half melted. It's a 10 minute drive. He groans, lazily draping his arm over his eyes as he laid back on the hood. Sweat drips down his face and into his mouth. If someone were to collect the sweat that was dripping down the beautiful face of Lavernius Tucker, they would have a full bottle.
"Move," Wash demanded simply, already taking a seat next to the boy next to him. He bumped Tucker over enough to sit comfortable. "Holy shit, dude! How are you lying on this? Without - where's your shirt?" quickly standing up to get away from the 1000 degree hood as his questions derailed. The blonde stared down at him, only in a half-lifted, sweat-drenched tank-top.
"Whyyyyy?" Tucker still had his arm covering his eyes.
"Because that was mine. I still remember you took it," Wash replied, though thinking on the answer he got out of him, it was probably more of a 'Whyyyyy, God?' response rather than an actual answer to his question.
"Huh? No, it isn't. I bought that one," he finally sat up and looked at him, though, you'd barely be able to tell because his eyes are extremely squinted to block out as much of the sun as possible while still being able to see who was speaking.
"Ah, yes, I understand. You bought a 'I Heart Physic's Club!' t-shirt with my name on the back," the sarcasm was a little weak but who cares when it's this hot.
"What? Your name isn't David. Plus, anyway, it may have been used as a makeshift bandage for Caboose," Tucker flopped back down, all the energy used up to hold himself up for 30 seconds. It's tiring carrying around a saxophone, marching, and actually paying attention and learning while it is like living in Satan's asshole.
"My name is David! W-we'll discuss that later, but what happened to Caboose?" Wash squeaked slightly. He sat back down, even though the hood still felt like it was 1000 degrees. His death glare was not even noticed, and he was putting deliberate effort into it. He soften his expression because everything hurt and that wasn't helping.
"Well, when he was practicing, he may have jumped up on the guardrail, fell, or passed out, and probably broke his arm. Someone yelled for a shirt and I sprang into action to impress the ladies," Tucker put effort into this response, actually grinning by the end of the statement.
"Is he going to the hospital?" Wash asked, wide-eyed and worried. Tucker shrugged.
"Probably not. He said he was okay," Tucker added.
"You said he probably has a broken arm, though!"
"Uhuh."
"Jesus Christ. Okay, back to the whole 'you're name isn't David' thing-" Wash started.
"Nah, let's save that for later. What's happening in the your nerd group?" Tucker interrupted, not wanting to go into the fact that he didn't even remember the first name of his friend. He just goes by Washington so much, it can be forgotten, okay?
"You mean show choir?" Wash corrected, nudging Tucker. Tucker rolled his eyes and finally sat up for real, letting out a groan in protest. Sweat still dripped off the two as if it was going out of style.
"Yeah, nerd group, show choir, same thing," Tucker shrugged again.
"You know you're a nerd too, right? I mean, you're in marching band and choir," Wash explained, looking directly at the football field ahead. It was a shame to call it a football field, really. It was mostly gravel or dead grass. There was a teeny, tiny shack beside it, where they kept concessions at. It was tiny, and a bit pathetic but it was theirs.
"Do you know how hard marching band is? You have carry your instrument, learn your instrument, learn the sets, learn to march and play your instrument at the same time, be good at it, and not die in a incredibly hot and ugly uniform. It should be a sport, honestly," Tucker argued, turning to look at Wash. He will fight anyone about how hard marching band really is.
"Show choir is kind of similar, then. We have to learn to dance, learn to sing, learn to dance and sing, be good at both dancing and singing, and learn how to do this all in a suit and tie," Wash countered, leaving a small grin on his face. He will also fight anyone about show choir. It was like a match made in argue-heaven.
"Marching band is harder," Tucker mumbled with a grin to match his friend.
"Sure it is," Wash jested, punching him in arm. The two sat on the burning car hood, giggling to themselves for the remainder of their break.