you spent the evening unpacking books from boxes

He sat in his trakkies and shirt, leaning on the arm of the sofa, monging out to Velvet Revolver. This was what it was all about. A cigarette pinched between his fingers, he air guitared and tapped his foot, slightly out of time to the beat. Chelsea, elbow deep in washing up liquid bubbles chinked cutlery against the glasses and cups; a noise which made my teeth hurt. “Lash us a fag.” I grinned cheekily, at the boy sat opposite me with holes in his ear lobes, big enough to fit my finger through. “Fuck off.” he sniped, tossing his cigarette packet at me yet smiling his boyish smile we all knew and loved. It was how we rolled. We’d bicker and swear at each other so much that anyone who didn’t know us well enough wouldn’t realise it was playful banter. Banter between best friends.

I flicked through the tv channels; music, cartoons, news. Over three hundred channels, and not a thing to watch. Chelsea joined us again from the kitchen, clutching her Starbucks mug to her chest with both hands. She curled up onto the sofa, in the space next to Tim, and we settled on a documentary about Hiroshima. Tim stubbed out his cigarette into a mug at his feet, and sat back laying his legs across Chelsea. He’d earlier admitted his love of weed and documentaries. We’d laughed, understanding the drugs part, but baffled by the mention of anything intellectual. He’d gotten defensive and sulked for a while, before Chelsea and I began tickling him and teasing him even more. Finally, he relented, pushing us off of him, and we’d fallen about laughing. We weren’t hurting anyone. Sitting in my flat, smoking the odd spliff and watching the Discovery Channel. There was no one we knew that was like us. We were content.

Later, we were joined by Ross; the alpha male of our group. Tim lay with his head in Chelsea’s lap as they shared the headphones and sang along quietly to Wolfman featuring Pete “waste of air” Doherty, as Ross referred to him. Ross, was sat too close to the tv, like usual when concentrating on his Xbox. He was mumbling along to Ruby, and shouting at Guitar Hero everytime he missed a note, which was more often than not. It was never his fault when he screwed up, always the game. Like most boys, really. 92% – he was unimpressed, and told Chelsea to shutup when she hadn’t even said anything and called her a bellend, before throwing a wobbly and telling the plastic guitar to “fuck itself”. The couple tired of Pete’s warbling, and the boy with holes in his ears; slightly larger than they were the last time I saw him, began to kick and punch Ross playfully. This was what I meant about playful banter. Ross would only call Chelsea a bellend, and Tim would only punch Ross to defend her because we were friends. It wouldn’t work any other way.

Tim and Chelsea retired to the kitchen, for a spliff. Ross declined, and we sat together in the dark; Ross on a beanbag by my feet, we ocasionally laughed and quoted films and tv shows to each other. Babyshambles began to drift out from the gap under the kitchen door. Chelsea and Tim’s chat was muted and the only light was the flicker of Family Guy on the tv. We were split into two groups, in two different rooms, doing two different things, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because we were friends. Who knew days like this wouldn’t last forever? And as I sat with Ross, neither of us would have guessed. And neither would the girl in the kitchen, sipping coffee or the boy with the holes in his ear lobes, big enough to fit my finger through.

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