( sweet pea rolls his eyes so far into the back of his head he's almost afraid they might stick there. reggie never knows when to shut the fuck up. he wonders what his parents must be like, to have raised a kid who has no filter and just says whatever stupid shit comes to mind. over the years, sweet pea has learned that words are like knives — if carefully wielded, they can cut your enemy down to size, bleed them out slowly. reggie uses those knives like a drunken imbecile, swiping through the air and occasionally landing a hit out of pure luck.

he shifts the shoulder strap of his bag, staring at reggie's car like it personally offends him. and maybe it does. or maybe it's just the fact that reggie owns such a sleek car, which he definitely doesn't deserve. )

You think I want to touch any of your shit? ( he climbs into the passenger seat, a bit awkwardly given how tall he is, but he manages. it feels a bit like stuffing himself into a clown car, which isn't totally off base considering reggie may as well be a clown the way he's always making a fool of himself. ) Just shut up and drive. I'm assuming you don't need directions. ( pointedly, since he knows damn well reggie knows how to get to sunnyside, and not for any good reasons. )