#chetpop is becoming less and less of a joke

[brokenlovesong]

felt like posting a small snippet of the Chetpop fic I’m currently working on :)

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Sodapop dropped to his back before taking another hit and probably could’ve stayed, undisturbed where he laid, for the rest of the night had he not been ripped from his thoughts by the aggressive footsteps breaking apart nature with every stomp. Cracking open one eye by a sliver, he could vaguely make out the banana yellow sleeve of the overpriced jacket all the football meatheads sported.

Just dandy.

There are very few people Soda actually wanted to see in that moment and a West Side tool bag was not one of them.

“I’m telling you now, rich boy. Turn around and go right back to your castle made out of cheese that you came from because I ain’t in the mood for sharing land.”

Chet scoffed. The sound of liquid swirling at the bottom of an empty bottle filled his ears and reminded him of Buck’s. “Who died and made you king? As far as I’m aware, we’re on neutral grounds.”

“But barely. I could chuck a rock at your head right now and if I missed, it may stumble onto Greaser territory.”

The footsteps grew closer and closer until when Sodapop opened his eyes, the slimy face of a no-good money bag was kneeling right in front of him. So close he could push a hand out and send Chet toppling backward onto his ass. That option sounded appealing. “You probably can’t even spell ‘territory’.”

Despite the mostly empty bottle and his breath reeking of alcohol when he leaned in far too close for comfort, Chet’s words didn’t seem slurred enough to indicate intoxication. That meant either he was drunk and a world renown actor, or he was sober as a nun.

That didn’t matter, though. Soda knew if he wanted to— and he really wanted to— he’d win a fight if he picked one. Chet was tall. But all his muscles came from football. Soda’s came from brawling with his buddies.

But, as much as his fist twitched with a desire to swing, his muscles ached in more places than he knew he had muscles in. And he was tired. Overly exhausted from everything life had thrown at him as of recently. So he decided to give Chet an out and he’d let the other boy decide his fate. “Get your face out of mine before I rearrange it.” He thought it was polite of him to give Chet the option.

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