pre-zimbits, in which bittle is drunk and jack is very patient (and a jerk with a great ass)
“I can’t believe I didn’t stay for Senior Week last year.”
Bittle was sprawled across the grass in the little cemetery on the other side of the soccer field. Jack wasn’t entirely sure how he got here, but he was very drunk and very alone, and everyone else was very drunk and not answering Bittle’s texts.
“Having fun?” Jack asked, hands in his pockets.
Bittle pulled himself to his feet, using a headstone for balance. “Mmph, sorry there, Mr. Dead Dude. Don’t haunt me for this.”
Bittle was drunker than Jack feared. He stumbled over, eyes glassy and unfocused. There was no doubt Jack would be cleaning vomit tonight; Bittle was so buying him Annie’s tomorrow.