Ridgeport Preparatory Academy discussion

Zeke wasn't one to purposely avoid all human contact but the empty soccer field looked so... inviting whilst his AP bio class seemed to be anything but, especially now that midterms were just around the corner. Besides, Zeke had successfully managed to butcher just about every experiment they did so he didn't think ditching one class would really hurt at this point.

He picked the lock to the soccer shed (as he had thousands of times before), got out a ball, and did his best to haphazardly drag one of the goals onto the goal line, running back to the shed to find the spare cleats he had hidden back in sophomore year (okay, so maybe he did ditch class to play soccer like, every week, but it was biology, who could blame him?). The weather was great (first week without a drop of rain, woot woot), his spirits were high, and there was not one person in sight who could possibly whip out a phone when Zeke managed to fumble his way into a terribly awkward act, which meant for once, Zeke didn't have to walk on the metaphorical tightrope of caring what other people thought. So far, so good.

He placed the ball on the centre spot, reared back a yard, and broke into a running start, feeling the adrenaline spill all over him, anointed with a feeling of predestined victory as his foot wheeled back and executed a beautiful kick.

The ball soared, triumphant for one second, then two, before anticlimactically bouncing off the goal post and flying to the right.

Zeke might've added yet another embarassing fail that involved someone getting hurt had it not been Arend at the recieving end of Zeke's purely unintentional blow. Seeing how it was Arend, Zeke merely watched with a slightly bemused expression as the other boy expertly caught the ball with the same old grin, one that spoke of mischief and short attention spans and lightning quick reflexes.

Everything about Arend spoke of agility, whether it was his ability to block just about every object that came in his way or his ability to bounce from one subject to the next like an energizer bunny on steroids. When Arend lowered the ball, Zeke braced himself for the inevitable moment where Arend would catapult the ball in his direction without warning and accidentally end up hitting Zeke in either a) the head or b) the balls, neither of which sounded very favorable in any given circumstance.

"What? No!" Zeke exclaimed, bristling with defensiveness as if Arend was the infamous Mrs. Jacobsen herself, come to further his misery in another person's body. He took a couple steps backwards, eyes still focused on the soccer ball in a wary, mistrusting manner before he looked back up at Arend and melted. "I mean, yeah, but, like, we don't do anything in that class, besides learning about... about..." What did they learn about?

Zeke startled as the other boy finished his sentence, the answer surprising him. He stopped fidgeting and bit his lip, thinking about the reply before suddenly bursting into a laugh. Zeke's laughs were always unexpected. He was the kid who got the punchline hours after everyone else did, whose laughter erupted with no warning except for the invisible surge of dopamine in his brain. It was warm and loud and infectious, and for a moment, he forgot about biology and getting hit in the balls and remembered why he and Arend were friends. Arend was literally the goalie to his striker. But Arend could also make Zeke laugh.

The ball landed at his feet before Zeke had a chance to see Arend throw it and the boy plopped down into the grass, tossing the ball between his hands as the other boy had only seconds before, grinning wildly at the boy whose smile was like a secret, one which held the potential to save the world, or maybe destroy it, depending on who you asked.

Hey, what do you think Hemingway felt when he killed himself? Where did that come from? But then again, where did any of the thoughts caged in Arend's skinny frame come from? If Zeke was more observant, he would've known that the mood had shifted before the ball left Arend's fingertips, releasing innocent banalities and capturing something else. But Zeke didn't know anything, all he knew was that all of a sudden the blue sky seemed grayer and his friend's smile was tinted with an emotion unknown to Zeke, a darkness which lurked from the corners of Arend's face.

"I-Well-Um-" He took a moment to think. Why did Hemingway commit suicide? But then again, why did anybody? Zeke thought that more than anything, it was emptiness. A void in the soul that could never be replenished. Maybe the unknown forces of death were more comforting than whatever dark demons were exploding behind their eyelids.

"Maybe he just stopped caring," Zeke started slowly, the hesitance deafening his words. "Maybe... Maybe someone told him hope wasn't real and he believed them."