The blond laughed loudly at some remark the wild brown-haired boy made; the former leaning against a smirking black haired boy as the latter grinned widely. The pink-haired girl sitting across from the blond and beside the brown-haired boy rolled her bright emerald eyes and planted her chin on her fist, leaning against it in a show of annoyance; however, it was clear that she had found the brunet's remark humorous. The black haired boy, on whom the blond was still sagging against, sighed and turned his head slightly to look down at the blond, raising an eyebrow to which the blond stuck his tongue out at. The black haired boy reached his hand up and ruffled the blonde's shaggy head of hair before smacking it soundly. Whining, the blond flailed his arms about a bit, the pinket and brunet laughing at their friends' antics.

He sighed to himself, and picked at his fries. They were quite disgusting, really: in all honestly, he had no idea why he bought them, or why this particular chain restaurant was part of a chain at all; if this was how they all sold their fries, why the hell did they have enough money to keep from being bankrupt? Absently, he flicked the fry off his tray in the direction of the blond and his friend, half way across the half-empty establishment. Unfortunately, the fry was stopped mid flight by means of a bee hive hair style, which belonged to a woman who appeared to be middle aged, middle classed, and from the mid-fifties. The fry got stuck in her hair.

She turned away from glaring hatefully at the blond and the black-haired boy, the latter having just given the former a small peck on the lips, to turn her glare on him. "Honestly. Young ladies such as yourself should be far more well behaved," she informed him. He raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but the only two members of the female gender in this restaurant are yourself, though that does seem like a bit of a stretch, and the pink haired girl over there," he pointed at her table for effect, his deep voice proving to her that he was not, in fact, a 'young lady'. The woman looked appalled, her eyes darting from his waist-length brown hair to his pale, lilac-colored hair; from his tight, girly jeans to his designer top, fresh from Aeropostal. His raised eyebrow climbed ever higher, daring her to say something. Rather than voice her comment, however, she turned away, thoughts along the lines of 'how horrible it is that such people infest our society nowadays' most likely running through her narrow-minded head.

A snort from his left caught his attention, and he turned slightly, looking at the red head whom was slouched over the table, his cheek resting in his hand. The vibrant green eyes were focused on his own pale ones, a hint of amusement sparkling in them. "You get along swimmingly with strangers," the red head observed blandly.

"Indeed."

The red head turned his focus back onto the group of four teenagers at the table across the room. Several not-quite-awkward moments passed before green eyes focused themselves once more on lilac orbs. "You know…they don't know how good a guy you really are."

"You better be glad for that." A red eyebrow arched itself. "If they did, I would be swimming in admirers."

"Mmm," the red head murmured in not-quite agreement. A few more moments passed and then—

"What I do for the sake of love." Green eyes flashed a stronger sense of amusement, and the red head stood up. Pale eyes followed his movements questioningly.

"Oh, get up, you hopeless romantic—" lilac eyes rolled upward in scoffing gesture, "—before this place worsens your mood."

"It can get worse?"

The red head made no response, but simply turned to the door, knowing that his boyfriend would follow. Indeed he did, sighing to himself, and pushing the chair in which he sat back, and dumping his trash in the proper receptacle. As the dirty glass door closed behind him, he failed to notice two emerald eyes following him, a allusion of understanding glistening in their depths.

The author-ess is so dead, isn't she? Yes…yes she is…

The author-ess weeps silently to herself. And this chapter…this one final chapter…it's so horrible! The author-ess is aSHAMED. ASHAMED, you hear?! She continues weeping loudly. After a moment, she stands, blinking. She brushed off the imaginary dust her dog hair-covered jeans, tucks in the strands of hair that have fallen out from under her hat, and straightens her pre-wrinkled shirt.

So. The author-ess understands if you hate her. But please, if only to say I HATE EWE, drop a review? The author-ess would like that…she wants to know if you think her writing is better…or worse…or…what?

THE AUTHOR-ESS LOVES YOU ALL. SHE REALLY DOES. (And she is quite disappointed that she was unable to drag this on until a chapter 13 emerged.)