Dion Cambré's nights were usually active, face lit by the blinding glow of his laptop screen – or rather, the source of those heavy, cordial stains by his iris. Exhaustion would always catch up to him at some point, and his eyelids would sink over his gaze in turn. Still, they presented no hinder to the trick shots and 360 manoeuvres he had executed on his favourite computer game, each one broadcasted in high graphics to his forty-two adoring followers.
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Though if he wanted any chance of respecting the prompt of his alarm the next morning, the nightly stream had to be cut short. He felt, as a curtesy to his new housemates, that he should arise in the AM timeframe for once, just so their first impression of him wasn't that he was some sluggish pothead who slept most of his days away. They'd find that out later.
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Temptation for a rolled pack of greenery did manage to defeat him that morning, however, and he found himself sipping greedily from the paper before making any efforts to get ready. Of course, Dion's version of getting ready was to ruffle a few fingers through his hair and throw a shirt on to accompany the sweats he wore to bed.
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It was funny. His mother, a proud business owner who always felt at ease in the presence of lavish jewellery and designer brands, had hoped a name like Dion would help mould her child into the sophisticated upper-classman she envisioned him to be. Instead, she was gifted with a son who broke his leg, two birthdays in a row, from attempting to mimic Tony Hawk's pro skateboarding techniques from the slides of their rooftop.
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Fortunately, he would receive three angels to guide him. The first, his mother, who would constantly attempt to teach him basic life skills, like how to put on a load of laundry, as he simply stood there and scratched at his head. The second, his twin sister, Rose, with a temper as red as her name, who he had seen race past his bedroom door with a girl one afternoon – Lila Braun, who would end up being the third. She was an oddball; always wore her pants high and her skirts long. She had this fountain of chocolate that was always twisted into two space buns, barren sprouts jutting out at the edges, and her teeth were imprisoned by a ghastly metallic casket.
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It wasn't until senior year that she had finally ditched her mother's styling advice and let her wild strands loose. Her braces came off the following week, and after she had taken the direction of a few cheerleaders and shortened her skirt, Dion, her best friend's brother (who she had since developed a devastating crush on) would finally see her. Really see her.
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She kept him close, drove him home from parties, wrote his assignments for him, let him pass out on her bedroom floor. Her mother rose concerns about her showing too much kindness to a boy who continued to prove he didn't deserve it, but she would just smile, shake her head and say, "C'mon, mum. Give him a chance."
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By some miracle, Dion was accepted into the same college as those two girls he loved to mooch off of the most, which would naturally lead to him crashing their vision of a clean and tidy, boy-free residency. Rose had always thought moving to university would present an opportunity to get away from the deadweight she called her brother, but there he was, fumbling around in the spotless new bathroom she prayed he wouldn't trash by the end of the week.
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A blanket of dark eyeshadow, a quick spritz of Diór cologne (something his aunt had brought for his birthday in attempt to make him seem more presentable to women, though his choice of clothing would always defeat the purpose) and a gargle of mouthwash would complete his routine for the morning. Socked feet shuffled limply down the staircase and a sweet aroma was swift in its journey to his nostrils. He couldn't really remember the last time he had woken up to a homemade breakfast, far too accustomed to sleeping through it, and downing a cup of bland coffee once he did manage to tumble from the sheets.
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"Ho—ly shit that looks good." His words came deep and crackled from the morning hours, an open palm kneading across his eye before it fell to retrieve a plate and a fork. Waffles were always his first choice, so he grabbed a couple from the buffet, doused them in maple syrup, and shovelled as much as he could into his mouth. The streamer's dark orbs disappeared behind his eyelids for a moment and his head rolled back, a sign his taste buds were pleased. Confirmation of this came fourth in a murmur, as he still hadn't finished chewing the sultry bread.
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"Oh man, who made all this? It's to die for." He swallowed everything down with a glass of OJ before he went on, gaze falling towards where his not so obvious duplicate sat cross legged on the sofa. "Unless Rose made it. In which case, this is the worst breakfast I've ever had the misery of eating... And I'm glad your goldfish died."
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"Really wish it had've been you." The honey brunette retorted, her stare locked onto the television screen, which currently displayed a re-run of some melodramatic soap opera. She was so similar to their mom. Dion liked to think he wasn't like either of his parents. In fact, he had tried to convince his third grade Music teacher that he wasn't Mr. and Mrs. Cambré's off-spring at all, but the long-lost son of Kurt Cobain.
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The freshman was stuffing his second waffle past his lips as he scanned over the faces of his new roommates. There were two blondes, one with dyed red hair and another with some killer dreads. "What's up, locks?" Nicknames always came to him like clockwork. "I dig the hair... Very Bob Marley of you."
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"Thanks. I dig the eyeshadow... Very, uh... Generic E-boy of you." She was clearly poking fun at him, though something about her eyes made him suspect a veil of flirtation. She soon proved him right. The cherry coat of gloss embraced the pearls of her teeth as she smiled and added, with lowered eyes meeting his own, "The name's Kiesha. You're welcome for breakfast, by the way." And as not to disturb the girl on the sofa by making moves on her fabled "numbskull" of a brother, she leaned in to murmur, "Maybe you could make it up to me later. You know, my room is right next to yours. I'd say that's pretty convenient."
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Her eyes mimicked butterfly wings and the motion stole breath from his lungs. Ideally, he would have come up with something smooth and clever to respond with, but somehow all he could manage was an awkward laugh and a glance towards the carpet as his throat mustered the words, "Yeah, totally, for sure."
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The sides of Dion's cheeks almost matched the colour of Kiesha's lips, though on cue, his unofficial girlfriend returned from her early morning lecture. She wove her way through the boxes that still sat unpacked by the entrance, handbag rutted between her arm as she tried to balance her keys, books, and the tall iced latte she'd gotten from across the road in attempt to feel like everybody else.
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"First class of the semester and I already have to write a fifteen hundred word essay. So annoying," She sighed, dumping all of her things onto the dining table, before finally acknowledging the boy's presence. "Surprised you're up this early, Di. Didn't expect you to make your introductions 'til like... 1 o'clock."
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"Well, I couldn't exactly stay asleep when I knew I was in the presence of actual celebrities," He exclaimed, first averting his eyes towards the blondes. "I mean, Jesus Christ, Lil, you didn't tell me I'd be bunkin' with the Olsen twins. Not to mention Scary Spice over there." He gestured to the unnatural redhead, and received her middle finger in response.
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Rose rolled her eyes. "They have names, turd brain." She would then go on to introduce the redhead as Nicole, and the blondes as Sienna and Harper, all of which were pretty decent names, but he would probably continue to call them Scary Spice and the Olsen twins.
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