The List

Creepy Carl never got on the bus, but whatever. First time for everything. Maybe his DS died or something and part of his soul left with it. He's always hunched over the thing playing Pokémon; sometimes Isaac even sees him smiling by himself in the hallway during lunch, DS in hand. It's weird.

You know what's also weird? Anthony thinking that he's Isaac's long-lost BFFL. By that, he means Anthony wouldn't shut up the whole bus ride.

"This is my first time on a school-bus."

"That sucks."

"I think I like it. It reeks of teenage angst and sexual frustration. And... snot, I guess. Ew," he wrinkled his nose which, not cute.

"If that's what you're into."

"My mom cheated me, you know. I didn't know how babies were born. Or what a vagina was."

"Uh." Heavy.

"Do you know what it's like being home-schooled until 8th grade? And then you're like oh high school shouldn't be so hard and then holy fuck it's like... bad. Seriously, be glad you were exposed at an early age."

"I guess."

"Oh, my God. Keep talking. What do you guess? Words, man. Words!"

"I guess... you learn a lot sitting in the back of the bus?" Oh God, Isaac is so bad at this.

"Our relationship is blossoming into something beautiful. Should we start picking out names for the babies? Do you want a boy or a girl? I think I want a boy because we could have bro-to-bro conversations. Females terrify me. Periods, man."

Isaac, for lack of better term, felt overwhelmed during the mostly one-sided exchange. He used to thrive on conversation, used to love making jokes and talking about dicks. He doesn't really know when the switch happened, when he turned into a caveman.

Maybe if he remembered he could fix it. It's not like he's not going to, he's just got a do a couple of things. Then it'll be like nothing happened, like he never happened. Problem solved. Case closed.

... Fuck, he's so negative. And Anthony? He's so happy.

**

Isaac is busy plotting his fool-proof plan to end the world -- his world. He only has two words written on the top of the page, THE LIST, scrawled in neat, precise writing. It took him five tries, five pieces of paper from his notebook to get it right, to get everything just right because he couldn't handle it any other way. It's annoying, what it is. But Isaac can't change his brain. There's other things he can control like, say, his life. It's the little things that keep him going.

Underneath the title, the rest of the paper is still blank. It's irritating; he feels like he's failing himself. Hell, maybe he's not failing himself. The List being blank just means he has nothing to live for, right? It makes Isaac sick for a second before the relief rolls in, he has nothing to live for. He's going to be okay.

But even if Isaac is going to be okay, he needs to tie up some loose ends. So he poises the pen above the paper, and writes the first thing that comes to mind.

1. Sweep under the couch.

"What is this, it looks like government jizz."

"Jesus," Isaac startles and outwardly cringing at the resulting scribble. "Get a bell, would you? Or, I have a better idea. Leave me alone." He's grumpy, he's going to have to start all over again and there are only so many times he's willing to write THE LIST at the top of the page just so. Maybe he should be doing this on his phone.

He should definitely be doing this on his phone.

"I'd say I'm sorry but I'm not. Back to the original question, what is this, it looks like government jizz."

"It's honey mustard." Isaac doesn't even have to look up at the substance in question, he knows what Anthony is talking about.

"That's actually... I don't believe you. Honey mustard shouldn't look like this. I would know, my mom--" He stopped, shaking his head. "So. Can I sit here." Anthony doesn't ask, just sits down next to Isaac anyway.

And Isaac? He doesn't care but he cares because this is his hiding spot. It's grade A shit: behind a trashcan in a small crook of a hallway that leads to a storage room. Super complex stuff.

"I thought we had a deal," Isaac grumbled.

"My fingers were crossed."

Of course they were.

Isaac sighed his special the world is my oyster and mine is filled with tea-tree oil sigh, "just be quiet."

"No probsies. I'm great at that."

Isaac didn't look at Anthony but cocked an eyebrow anyway, returning to his notebook. The word couch was messed up from earlier and no, not happening. So Isaac flipped the page in his notebook and started again.



There.

"What are you doing?"

Just getting ready to clear a few things up before I bite the bullet, WBU? "Bucket list."

"But it says THE LIST."

"And?" Isaac isn't getting defensive, he isn't.

"Right, I guess you have that whole," he waved his hand around, "dramatic thing going for you."

Isaac hummed in agreement (because if he takes some artistic liberties he can proudly? say that Anthony called him a Bad Bitch), tapping his pen as he thought of how to fill the second line. It was hard what with Anthony hovering over his shoulder like that heavy-breather from Hey Arnold!.

"Sweep under the couch? What kind of bucket list is that?"

It's the first thing that came to his mind, thank you. On a deep subconscious level he might be able to get away with explaining it as sweeping away the dust bunnies of his past. But that's stupid, so he says, "think of it as a special kind of list."

"I'm listening."

Isaac was silent for a second as he thought of how to word this without sounding... sketchy. "What if you only had one year left to live?"

He definitely sounded sketchy.

"And? Are you dying from cancer?"

"No, just your voice."

"Shut up. Continue."

"I mean... You could die whenever, you know? So I just want to... if I die, say, within the next year, I want to make sure I'm okay with it. No regrets."

Anthony paused for a second. "So sweeping under the couch is going to help you feel better if you get mauled by a MILF or something and can't go on?"

"... I guess."

"To each their own, my man. So, want help?"

Isaac huffed, "it's kind of a personal thing."

"Oh, come on," Anthony chided, "you say that like you have a winning personality and a plethora of ideas."

"You mean I don't?"

"You really don't."

"Fuck you."

Anthony smiled goofily, "okay."