dude, why are you being so serious?

he looked into the sky. it was a lightish but intense blue, the color that turns everything in front of it to black silhouettes and makes the world feel like a slow piece of classical piano music. a crowd of silent rock doves hovered onto the top of an old-time ornate bank. "beautiful." he said.
teenagers never say beautiful, especially boys. the only time they do is right before they start carefully sliding the arm they have around your shoulder further down. they never say beautiful about the sky. and they *never* say it to other boys.
he flicked his eyes over to the boy standing next to him. "um, okay," he said. they had just been talking in the way fourteen year old boys talk--the subject matter of less concern than the mutual agreement of macho-ness. 'beautiful' stuck out like a sore thumb.
teenagers don't want to be so serious. to pronounce something as beautiful seems to require authority, maturity, and a certain romantic sensibility that we are afraid to dive into. that's why we use stupid adjectives like "cool" so much. there is a certain feeling that our emotions are so deep, so intense, so scary that we must only ever speak in gossipy small-talk and snap our bubble gum. well, boys don't snap their bubble gum.
he snapped his bubble gum as his small dark eyes slid decadently over the blue and black world. he soaked it up with relish, drew in his breath slowly, and closed his eyes.