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The Lexicon of Friendship	By : bsquared Category: +1 through F > Chaotic Views: 1157 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Chaotic or it's ideas as well as characters. I make no money off of writing about two cartoon teens having a secret romantic/sexual relationship. WHAT A TWEEST!

Chapter List
- 1-The Lexicon of Friendship
- 1
Author's Note: Hullo! Hope you enjoy this. I like the dynamic of Kaz and Tom: they seem a little bit on ends with each other, yet they stick around each other like there's something in their friendship worth keeping. I'm exploring that. If anyone enjoys this crap (take my use of this noun lightly, I was raised on using this word for everything) and shows interest, I can write up a few more chapters (and hopefully they'll be longer)! Anyway, enjoy some baby-sized-angst in Kaz's mind!

“Do you ever feel like it just… It just won’t work out?” A small and swift kick at the soft dirt on the ground is made by a nice pair of shoes. It doesn’t go noticed.

“What won’t work out?”

“Are you just playing stupid with me? Sometimes I get tired of explaining myself to you—“

“-- Tom, if I knew what the heck you were talking about, I would answer you honestly! Just spit it out.”

“Us.” Another kick at the dirt, and this time it catches the older teen’s attention.

“W-what do you mean by us? And would you stop with the scuffing? It makes you look deranged!”

“Kaz, you can’t keep pretending that we’re just screwing around for fun. You can’t fucking ignore—“

“Stop cussing! It doesn’t suit you...” Avoiding the rest of the conversation and I know it (but I do find his cussing totally unnecessary). My seedy brown eyes are darting back and forth from underneath those tiny rose tinted glasses, looking from Tom’s seemingly perfect face all the way down to his ever-wandering dirt-kicking foot. Dang those shoes look nice. His face and body are a nice view on the way to those great kicks, but it’s not like I haven’t noticed all of that before. Are those shoes new, or does he just clean up really well (am I avoiding even thinking about the situation, too)?

“Are you kidding me? This is exactly why I am tired of you. Just get the hell out of my sight.” I make an incredulous face his way, but he’s used to that by now. He isn’t moving his feet to walk away from me because I’m the one that needs to walk away. But no, I’m not letting him get his way in the end, for once.

“Hey! D-don’t jump to conclusions, okay? We… We can talk this out! We can talk this out right now! I swear, I’ll figure out what I’m doing wrong, and you can help me, and… And, well… Things can go back to they were… B-before…?” Starting off so excited, my mouth getting ahead of my mind (as usual with these situations).

Nevermind, nevermind, I’ve got an idea to fix this word-vomit mess I just made. Reach for his face; he likes being held there, right? He likes having his cheek stroked— always tries to ignore it, slapping my hand away and looking from my eyes, and my scrawny hand cradling him. But he leaves it there. Every freaking time.

“Look, Kaz… I’m not saying this to freak you out. I’m not saying it because it’s your fault, or anything. I’m talking about this, with you, because you’re my friend, and this is what friends do.” He sighs, taking a heavy breath. He feels like he’s letting out a big secret I assume. Am I really that much of a burden? Instead of speaking out and making another mistake in his eyes, I wait.

“So, as a friend… I think we should stay friends, okay? Just that. Friends. I think it’ll work out that way, instead of being close friends.” Friend friend friend. That word is whirling around my head, like its own lexicon-- friend meaning so many definitions, just one word though.
Friend, the person that brings you to new worlds.
Friend, the person you start confiding in.
Friend, the person you accidently brush hands with and feel electricity.
Friend, the person that you sneak kisses with.
Friend, the person you mutually rub up against underneath the sheets at home.

After finding all of the definitions in my mental made-up lexicon (it'll come in handy some day), I realize that Tom has stopped shuffling. Both of those nice shoes slowly step closer and closer to fit between my dirty tan ones. I look up and his thin lips are parted, his breath hot (God just please kiss me and touch me, Tom). I can’t bear to look in his eyes: I know that he’ll just finish his decision in dumping me if he looks right through my eyes.
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The Lexicon of Friendship