Epilogue
Imported from SF2 with no description.
No classes today. Of course, that makes the students around here even busier. 'Busier.' Yes, quite busy.
We're doing fine. It's been a year since you've heard from us—a little more, maybe. College has treated us well. Not the best, not the worst. Living in a dorm full of people our own age, well—that's the shit, it turns out. Mostly. Besides all the side glances and hidden whispers, our door's gotten the worst treatment of any of us. Someone unknown spray painted 'Whore' in big red letters right on it in the kind of paint that drips from every bottom angle before it dries. The passive kind of aggression, and yet unsettling.
But a week later, someone unknown with the same paint came back and crossed that out. They wrote 'Sorry' in smaller letters right beneath.
Very sweet, but I'm mostly bothered that the college administration hadn't gotten it cleaned off after an entire week. Where's all that tuition and grant money going again?
But now that door rattles as someone knocks on it from the other side. A feminine voice says, “Harley, open up! I just need my trig book. Come on."
And Harley, poking out from the bottom bunk of this constricted bedspace, handcuffs rattling from around the slats above her, says back, “Little busy! Just give us, like, thirty minutes."
We have what I can only assume are real friends here. The kind that only one or two of which will keep in contact after all this college business is finished, but want to go get breakfast and spend weekends together while we're here otherwise dealing with classes and homework. After spending our lives in the country sitting on our asses, it's nice to finally hear someone telling us to run if we want any of the pancakes in the cafeteria before they're gone.
“Whatever you're doing this time, I know it doesn't take thirty fucking minutes," the voice on the other side says. “Come on, I'm actually studying today."
“Aftercare, okay?" Harley says. “I let you use my bunk for whoever the shit you were at it with yesterday, and I know you ain't goin' be studying for more than an hour 'fore you stop. Just wait!"
Here are the kind of friends who will lock each other out of their shared room for some dirty time of keeping busy. So busy. None of these children ever goddamn study.
“Apollo? Come on, buddy, be on my side. Tell her. It's not like I'll look, okay? I just need my trig book."
Apollo, the boy upon whom Harley currently sits, the Typhlosion, as it goes, with his paws curled high around her breasts and his neck stooped low over her shoulder to lick her in places, grinning, I'm sure, and paused only for Harley to say for him, “Trust me, he's even busier."
“Christ, don't tell me that. Ulysses? Come on, girl, you got me, right?"
And here I am laid over the top bunk, earplugs in both ears and headphones over those—unfortunately, the hearing of any Vulpix is top fucking notch. And despite how many times while wearing these I've told her to keep it down, still Harley says, “She can't even hear you."
“Fuck. Whatever. Fuck you. I'm taking your bunk again when Jess comes back over."
So the roommate tromps off, Apollo's mystery meat continues greasing Harley's oven, and yes—we're doing fine.
I've gotten used to it. For all the time you've had to get used to it, believe me, so have I. Though the ambience here may be grunting and moaning and various onomatopoeia, the book I have up here with me masks the rest of the world as long as I have it to delve into. Joyce. It's not literature for everyone, but between you and me, I prefer to brag about what I read. The library is my second home here. The things you don't have cause to care about back in the country—they're all here. Career instructions, lost languages, trivia, guilty-pleasure adventures. These are the joys that have consumed me this past year. Reading isn't a joy you can explain unless someone already understands, I know—but now I really know.
“Come in me, come inside, please, Sir… anh! Anh!"
Sometimes. And sometimes I wonder how 'Oh, you're so big, guh, guh, guh, more please' really sounds in their heads.
But despite the bed shaking, the mattress squeaking, the uncomfortable scent of sweat and more from their full bodies conjoining—you've already read what they're all about. You've seen how they get down. Picture Apollo holding Harley tight, taller than her now, gripping her in the most sensitive spots while she bucks on top of him. Picture Harley straining her wrists against the cuffs she's so willfully trapped in, braided hair bouncing over her other shoulder, clutching her knuckles white for the ridiculous meatstick pounding her silly.
What? I've seen it too. Right now Apollo is humping himself to a halt, huffing his end, and Harley is gasping wordless how much she appreciates it. One mingles their breath within the other's, and low enough that they both think it's private, Harley whispers, “You want me to get you big again, do it in the back?"
Trust me. I'm just flipping the next page.
So if you were worried about how we're doing, don't be. You still know how we're doing. I'm doing great, and Harley and Apollo—they're doing it just fine.
The End