WARNING: This story contains slash (relationship between two guys), cigarettes, andalcohol. Oh, and lotsa cussing. You don't like? Then don't read.

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I pulled out a Pall Mall and flicked my lighter several times. “Fuck,” I cursed softly when the flame didn’t spark. Ah, goddamnit, this had been my last lighter and shiiiitttttt-

“Need a light?” I looked up and met a pair of amused, pretty green eyes. Huh. Who would’ve thought green could be that beautiful? I nodded dazedly and a Zippo was held out and flicked once. A bright yellow orange flame sparked and I leaned forward, the end of the Pall Mall catching the flame and glowing a faint red. The Zippo clicked shut and the pale hand holding it, curled around it and disappeared into the sleeve of a flannel jacket. I inhaled and felt the smoke hit the back of my throat. Mmmm. Sweet, sweet nicotine. Then I looked up.

Dark brown hair with bangs brushed to one side and an amused smile that showed front teeth that were slightly too big. Fine cheekbones stuck out and I had the urge to run my fingertips over the delicate bones. I blew the smoke out in a lazy breath. He- yes, he- was wearing a worn flannel jacket that was too big; from the sleeves, I could only see the tips of his fingers and the hem was right above the torn knees of his jeans.

He turned slowly and sat next to me. Then he delved a hand into his flannel jacket and pulled out a flask. The cap was unscrewed and then he held it out to me. “Want some?”

I peered at it. “What is it?”

He smiled again, this time with a roguish tinge. “Vodka.” I pulled back and shook my head. Hey, I was happy with my cigarette…which was burning and had a long line of ash. With a simple flick, it was gone and the cigarette was back to dangling lazily from my mouth.

He shrugged, pulled the flask up, and took a long draught from it. As he pulled it away from his lips- seconds later-, he frowned and shook it. I raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t have drunk it all in that short amount of time…unless it wasn’t filled up all the way.

Then he muttered, “I probably poured too much in the punch bowl…” I choked on the smoke in my mouth and, cigarette falling to the concrete steps, started to laugh.

“You poured it in the punch bowl?!?” I threw my head back as I laughed, not used to so much bubbling giddiness. It was strange…but I hadn’t laughed that much since…my laughter slowed…since I had stopped dating Bret.

I could see him- the boy (kid?)- staring at me like I was a madman, so I looked down at my fallen cigarette awkwardly. Seeing several bugs crawling over it and deeming it unsalvageable, I sneered and put it out with the tip of my shoe.

“So…” I started, breaking the silence while I pulled the Pall Mall pack out of my jacket pocket. “Why did you pour vodka in the punch bowl?” Pulled out cigarette and gestured at the doors which led to the hall for “Prom Night” which were behind me.

He pulled out his Zippo again (I glanced down at my own broken lighter next to the smashed cigarette on the concrete steps) and flicked it once. “My sister kept talking about how this was going to be the talk of years to come. How she would be remembered as the person who organized the best prom ever.” He rolled his eyes as I pulled away from the lighter, sucking the smoke in. He flicked the lighter several more times, watching the flame appear and disappear. A grin came onto his face and it was positively evil. “I had to take her ego down a notch.”

The lighter flipped shut with a final ‘click’. Then he leaned back on his elbows and turned slightly so he was facing me. “Why are you here?”

My eyes went to him once before going back down. I really shouldn’t…but his eyes were so open, his smile so inviting…

“Wanted to slash the tired of my ex-boyfriend’s limo…”

His dark eyebrows lowered and then scrunched together to form a “V” as he frowned. “Who’s your ex?”

I grimaced, slightly shamed. “Bret Asher.” His eyes went wide before going back to normal.

“So you’re the guy from the bet…” he muttered. I nodded once and then threw the now unwanted Pall Mall onto the grass.

I hated how everybody knew about it, but hey, that’s how things went. Bret Asher was one of the most popular guys in school. We had dated for three months before he had ditched me…for the bleached blond captain of the cheerleading squad. Turned out it had all been a bet…and the prize at the end of the tunnel was a date with Ashley White (the aforementioned blond bimbo).

My attention was caught as he shoved the flask into his jacket and started twirling the lighter. A thought came to me. “Aren’t you worried people will get drunk and crash when they drive?”

He shook his head and grinned. “Nah. Meagan-,” I assumed she was his sister, “-will figure it out before anybody gets really drunk. Then she’ll just dump all the bowls and fill them up with some new punch.” He shrugged.

“Isn’t that just a waste of time, then?”

He grinned again. “No.” Then he pulled open his jacket and I saw a sewn-in pocket. He reached into it and pulled out a small bottle of shaving cream. I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped me.

The door behind us suddenly slammed open. A girl in a frilly pink dress stomped down the concrete stairs and spun around. Her face was flushed an angry red color and her dark blond hair was in disarray- or maybe it was supposed to look like that…

“You!” she snapped, pointing a finger at him. He rolled his eyes and stood slowly, knees cracking loudly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, waving a hand at her lazily. She sniffed pathetically and turned on the heel of her shoe, walking of towards the parking lot. He turned to give me a bright smile and held out his hand. In his palm was the silver Zippo lighter. “Keep it. You need it more than me.” His smile became small and shy as I reached out and took it. Then he turned away and walked off after the girl.

I moved the silvery lighter to my other hand and dragged one finger over the engraved “Zippo”. Then I realized something.

“What the fuck is his name?”

---

“You didn’t get his name!?!” Rachel shrieked.

I rolled over and sniffed once in a disdainful manner. I could feel her eye-daggers digging into the back of my neck though and I waited for it. Just as I thought, two seconds later, a hand thumped me on the back. And not in the nice way.

I laughed as she jumped off of her bed, miffed, and started pacing the wooden floor. Each step she took made a board creak loudly and, from spending so much time here, I could map each step.

Even with my eyes trained on the cracks of the plaster ceiling, I could see her. Step, step, turn on heel, step, step, step, step, trip over sheets, step, and so on and so forth. After a few repetitions of this, she turned towards the bed and threw up her hands.

“How could you not get his name?!?” she spat, humor and exasperation coloring her voice.

I rolled my eyes and tapped my cigarette against the ash tray. “It wasn’t on my mind at the time,” I replied. Rachel scoffed at this.

She flopped onto the bed, frowning. “How are you going to talk to him though?”

I watched as the smoke danced through the air, blue-white wisps drifting and then fading. “What do you mean?”

She gave me a flat look. “What do you mean ‘what do you mean’?” Raised her eyebrows.

“I mean what do you mean talk?”

Another flat look, this time accompanied by a tight smile. “You know, have a conversation? Pursue a friendship? Have hot mansex?”

…And there was my good friend Rachel. I was wondering when “hot mansex” would come up. Because in any conversation with her, Rachel always somehow included “hot mansex”. Someway, somehow, she did it. Every single time. Really.

I glared at her as I stubbed out my cigarette. She just returned it with an innocent smile. After a minute’s worth of glaring, I gave up. “It’s not gonna happen.”

She rolled her eyes heavenwards, as if praying to some higher being for help. As if, sweetie. They (him, her, it) stopped helping us scumbags years ago.

“It’s not gonna happen,” I repeated. She huffed, held up her hands in defeat, and dropped the subject.

Despite what I had told Rachel, the following Monday morning, I was standing in the office, smiling at Sophie, the secretary.

She gave me a sweet yet dazed smile. Good old Sophie. She was the one responsible for proving that it was not just blondes who were dumb and for making sure that at least two-hundred kids were suddenly not registered to the school the previous semester. But, really, she was a sweet and kind, a bit like a grandmother who had lost a screw or two- if you get my meaning.

It was kinda funny actually- well, to people like me it was funny, and to people like the administrators it wasn’t. They would have had her fired a long time ago if it weren’t for the fact that nobody would ever apply for a crappy, underpaid, overworked high school secretary job in this backwater town.

“The girl who organized prom?” she repeated. I nodded and she smiled again. “That would be Meagan Riley.”

“Thanks.” I gave a small salute as I walked out of the office.

Meagan Riley. Everybody knew of her. I didn’t know she had a brother…but then again, I knew next to nothing about her with the exception of how she was a preppy, overachieving, perfectionist who was in pretty much everything.

And there she was, leaning against her locker, talking loudly to another girl. When I tapped her on the shoulder, she turned and gave me a pretty smile. “Yes?”

I smiled back. “Do you have a brother?”

Her brow furrowed together. “Michael?” Ah, Michael. A beautiful name for a beautiful boy. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “What’s he done?”

I smiled again, shifted my economics book into my other arm, and waved her off. “Nothing.” She looked puzzled as I turned and walked away.

Michael Riley. I had heard that name before. But where? I let out an aggrieved sigh as I entered the economics classroom.

A little Hispanic lady stood at the front of the class instead of the balding Mr. Kings I was used to. A substitute, then.

As she started roll, I lay my head on the desk and thought. Where had I heard that name before? It was annoying; sitting on the edge of my thoughts, a fuzzy, itchy feeling. Gah…

“Eric Nolan?” I raised my hand lazily and after she saw it and wrote something down on the paper she held, I let it flop back down.

A few seconds passed and then… “Michael Riley?” Wait…what?

My head snapped up and around. There he was- curled up in a desk in the last row in the back corner of the classroom by the windows. Bashful- yet still pretty- green eyes met mine and he gave a small smile and an even smaller wave.

It took another moment or two for the sub to finish roll and once she did, I stood and walked over to Michael. His small, shy smile was there as I sat down in the desk next to his. The sub already had her nose buried in a rather large book and the rest of the people were gathering in clusters of four or five in the front of the room, chattering loudly, so I knew we wouldn’t be noticed.

“So…” he started quietly, fingers tapping a restless beat against the desk.

A minute passed and then, “I didn’t know you were in this class,” from me.

He gave a faint laugh, eyes crinkling ever so slightly. “People tend to forget about me.”

I frowned. “You shouldn’t be forgotten.” Ah, shit, should I have said that? Abort, abort, abort! But another small, shy smile appeared this time highlighted by a soft pink blush.

I leaned back and we started talking. Likes, dislikes. Things we’ve read, movies we’ve seen. Family. Views on life, death, politics. Anything and everything that popped into our minds.

We talked all though economics and all through lunch. And damn me if I didn’t fall for him even more with each and every word he said.

We became close. I met his family, he met mine- which included Rachel since Rachel and I had known each other since we had been in diapers. When she had found out Michael was bi, she had screamed, “Since you’re both bi, you should be bi together!” And as much as that idea appealed to me, Michael didn’t seem to think anything of her words.

But high school had to end sometime.

He got accepted to IU while I was in little Calumet Purdue University. It was right before he left for Bloomington (where IU was at) - two seconds before he got into that car and drove away- when things hadchanged. He had murmured goodbye in the gentle, soft voice of his and then leaned forward to press a quick, chaste kiss to my lips. Then he pulled back and was in the car, smiling with flushed cheeks. And before I could do anything, the car was gone, driving into the distance. It was a good thing we decided to stay in touch.

I got an e-mail from him later, telling me all about the dorms and the campus. The kiss wasn’t mentioned. I couldn’t ignore the stab of hurt and disappointment.

It was several weeks later I was able to drive out there and visit him. We met in a little bar. The first thing he did was hug me. The second was to order a glass of vodka on the rocks. I grimaced as I watched him drink and he made a similar face when I pulled out my pack of cigarettes.

After getting over the basic ‘how’ve you been?’s, I gestured at his glass with my free hand and said, “You’re going to die of liver failure.”

He made a gesture towards my cigarette. “And you’re going to die of lung cancer.”

I really didn’t want to hear of him dying of liver failure (no, never want him die is the real thing), but that could be prevented. From the sudden empty and bleak look that entered his eyes, I could tell that he had similar thoughts.

I snubbed out the rest of my cigarette in the smeared glass ash tray near me and turned slightly on the bar stool to face him. “Look,” I started. “We make a deal.”

He pulled an ice cube out of glass and popped it in his mouth. A second later, a muffled, “What kind of deal?” followed.

“I give up smoking if you give up drinking.” He shot me a look and after a moment’s contemplation, his features softened. He downed the rest of his drink and then held out his hand. We shook on it.

Right before I left, holding the car door open, Michael leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to my lips- just like the time before he left to IU. I pressed back this time, feeling the firmness of his mouth against mine and the familiar rasp of stubble. Seconds later, we pulled away from each other.

I licked my lips and tasted a faint lingering of vodka. Hopefully he wouldn’t taste like that soon.

“Keep your end of the deal,” I muttered as I ducked into the car. He smiled as I turned the key and put the car into Drive.

The following weeks were hard. I constantly reached for my pack of cigarettes but I had to remember my deal (promise). I would just look at Michael’s picture to remind myself. Eventually, I resigned myself to chewing gum and those goddamn NicoDerm CQpatches.

It was another month before I had time to go back down there. This time I was able to see his dorm. It was small and cramped, but it was also homely. I felt warmth swell in my chest when I saw he had a picture of us framed and on the desk next to his bed.

But that faded when his door slammed open and a busty blond bounced in. She rushed into the room, threw her arms around Michael’s thin neck, and screeched, “Michael!” Burning anger filled the space the warmth had just been.

Michael flushed and started tugging at her futilely. The girl saw me though and bounced over. “Who are you?” she asked, snapping her bubblegum.

I couldn’t help the sneer that formed. “None of your business. Who are you?”

Michael probably sensed the anger bubbling under the surface so he went to the girl and started to usher her out. But she pushed him away and stepped forward, chin raised arrogantly.

Michael stepped between us quickly. “Amy, Eric. Eric, Amy.” He threw me a wary look and then turned to address her. “Amy, Eric is my good friend.”

Amy immediately started to pout, eyes going large and watery. “But Michael,” she started to whine, “I’m a good friend too.” She latched onto his arm. Once again, I couldn’t help the sneer that formed. “And you told me you’d go shopping with me.” She batted her eyelashes.

Michael frowned. “No, I said I had a friend coming over.”

She curled her arm tighter around his. “But I’m a better friend.”

Oh, hell no. I started forward but Michael stopped me by placing a hand on my chest. “He’s a really good friend,” he said.

She shook her head, blond locks flying into her face. “I’m still a better friend.”

He let out a sigh and shook his head slowly. Then he stepped forward and pressed a familiar kiss to my lips.

Immediately, I grabbed one of his hips and pressed his body close to mine and the other hand delved into his hair. Mine. Not yours, bitch. Mine.

His arms went around my neck and the kiss became openmouthed and delicious. Yum. Michael-taste without the taint of alcohol.

He pulled away and looked back, only to see the girl was already gone. I took the opportunity. I pushed him back until his knees hit the bed and he fell on it, looking up at me with amusement.

I buried my face into his neck and muttered, “You don’t taste of alcohol.”

“Of course not,” he said cheerfully, threading thin fingers into my hair. “I kept my end of the deal. Did you?”

I only pulled back long enough to push up one sleeve. The NicoDerm CQpatch showed and he grinned as I fell back onto him.

“Comfy?” he asked. I nodded, nuzzling a spot underneath his chin. When I placed a soft kiss there, he stilled. “Eric?”

I sighed. Well, here’s my time, my golden opportunity... “I really like you, Michael. Really, really like you.” I paused. “May even be love,” I added in a whisper.

I could feel his chest move as he laughed. “I really like-may-even-be-love you too.”

What? My head shot up. “So that girl…?”

“Just a friend.” He leaned up to place a kiss on the corner of my mouth. “And will never hit on me again.”

“Good.”

He pulled my down for a kiss and I smiled a bit. I was glad he didn’t taste of alcohol. It would have tainted the pure taste of Michael.