A/N: Well, here's my first upload, a oneshot I wrote after listening to "Mr. Brightside" over and over and over and over... XD

Warning, some implied sexual themes. Doesn't tell you anything. I'd love if you reviewed it, hint hint.

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It was only a kiss, right?

They leave quickly; brief goodbyes, and he climbs the stairs up to his bedroom, only a kiss, only a kiss, repeating in his mind again and again.

He knows – and deep down, he thinks, so does she - that she only said that to convince herself.

Only a kiss –
She could never love you –
You deserve better –
Only a kiss -
Shouldn't have happened –
Holding hands, how did that happen –
Keep on smiling –
Only a kiss, only a kiss, only -

It starts out just like any other Friday evening. They're just… hanging out. Sitting on the floor and leaning against the couch – she hates actually sitting on the couch, for reasons he can never figure out and that she never sees fit to share - sharing a beer, smoking a few cigs, half-watching whatever's on the TV. Talking and laughing about nothing, like always. She's waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up on the way back from work (her car is in the shop, again, he keeps telling her she should just get a new one.)

Boyfriend - no, that isn't the word. Too… childish. Lovers might be more accurate. The very thought makes his skin crawl. Not because he wants her for himself, though he can't deny that fact any longer. He isn't quite that selfish. No, she simply deserves better than Michael. He may be a little biased on the matter – he and Michael aren't exactly on friendly terms – but he has firmly convinced himself that this isn't the case. Something about the man is simply… wrong. Michael is handsome, he admits, and probably that was why she fell for him in the first place, with his short dirty blond hair and sparkling blue eyes and muscular build. Handsome, perhaps, but nothing compared to her beauty.

He always thinks, privately, that she must be an angel fallen to earth. She's blond too, but her hair is longer, almost down to her waist, and so light it's almost silvery. Instead of blue, her eyes are pitch-black night. And her voice, her smile, is enough to make his heart sing.

And apparently Michael's, as well, for they had only been dating for a few months and were already farther in their relationship than he thought was really necessary. Michael kept talking to him about engagement rings, what design she might like. He always shrugs it off; she says that she never wanted to get married, not until she's absolutely sure. Another thing he loves about her. She's as free as a bird, independent, never tied down to anything or anyone, especially a man, or a woman as the case may be.

Only a kiss.

They hadn't even had that much to drink, half a beer each, probably less, so he can't blame it on being drunk. Nor are they high, or intoxicated in any way – well, he may be intoxicated simply by her presence, but he tries to keep those thoughts at a minimum, because she has a lover, damn it. But how else to explain his actions? Maybe he's going insane.

He's laughing at a joke she made – probably a dirty joke, she has an uncharacteristic fondness for them - and then they stop laughing for a moment and just look at each other, dark eyes meeting dark eyes. A silence falls that isn't exactly awkward, just… nothing.

Her hand reaches out slowly, touches his face with her slender fingertips. She strokes his cheek gently, with agonizing slowness. He suddenly finds it hard to breath, and closes his eyes as she brushes a thumb over his slightly parted lips, stifles a soft moan.

"Chip crumbs," she says, her voice a little bit strained. At his slightly confused look, she adds, "On your face. Honestly, Jonathan, you're such a slob."

"Oh." It's the only thing he can think of to say. She had taken an abnormally long time to brush off a few crumbs, and her hand is still resting on his face, trembling very slightly, and how had they gotten so close all of the sudden? He can see himself reflected in her half-closed eyes. If he wished to, he could count her eyelashes. Too close.

And then his lips are gently easing over hers, and his eyes are closed, and one of her hands is still cupping his cheek while the other squeezes his hand tightly – he hadn't realized they were even holding hands, and wonders vaguely when that had happened – and he's stroking her soft angels hair, and she's kissing him back, and for a few moments, he is in heaven.

She pulls away, he likes to think reluctantly, and stares down at the floor. She grabs their small bottle of beer, downs the last of it, and takes a long drag of her cigarette. All the while he watches her, the treacherous part of his mind that wants this to be true battling furiously with the part that knows it's wrong.

"Sorry," she finally says. Her voice is still straining just that tiny bit. "That… that shouldn't have happened."

"Why?" He doesn't mean to say that; his mouth is moving of it's own accord. He regrets it instantly when she looks up at him, confusion mingled with hurt.

"Why? My god, Jonathan. You know why."

"Michael. Right. I've told you, you deserve someone better than him."

"Someone like you?" Her eyes are cold and challenging for a moment, and he flinches.

"No. Not at all."

"I'm getting married." She says flatly.

He hears the words, but can't quite comprehend them. They don't make sense at all.

"He asked me last night," she continues, blissfully unaware that the words are slowly killing him. "We were going to celebrate tonight. That's why he's picking me up."

He doesn't – can't - look at her. Instead he stares at the plain white walls of his tiny house, feeling his entire body grow cold. He stares at the walls, not really seeing them, because his mind is somewhere far away in a place where there is no Michael; there is only Jonathan and Angel, a place where life and love are both fair. He's wishing and wanting and, against all odds, hoping.

You should have known, the treacherous part of his mind whispers. She could never love you. How could she? Choose Jonathan, that silly, gangly, awkward boy, over Michael? You were a fool to even hope.

"Do you love him, Angel?" He asks quietly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Then I'm happy for you. For you both." Because the only thing that matters is that she's happy.

Finally she smiles again, and the world seemed just a little bit brighter when she does. "Thanks, Jon." She hesitates. "Look… um… could we just pretend that – that – never happened? It would really… just… make things simpler. You know?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Besides, it was only a kiss, right?"

"Right. Only a kiss." He smiles back at her, feeling numb all over. Which is good, he thinks, because he can't feel the pain anymore, for a moment, at least.

Just keep on smiling.

The doorbell rings, jolting both of them out of their private thoughts. She smiles again and jumps up, rushing to the door and opening it.

"Michael!" She greets him with a hug and a kiss, and his stomach begins to churn.

"Hey, Angel." He grins when their kiss is broken, and then glances over at Jonathan. "Thanks a bunch, man."

"No problem." What's he doing, agreeing to everything, when he could stop this, could tell her everything that he had never been able to, could have would have should have…

But it was only a kiss. It doesn't matter one bit, not to her.

They leave quickly, with brief goodbyes, and he's climbing the stairs up to his bedroom, only a kiss, only a kiss, repeating in his mind again and again.

He feels sick, nauseous, dry heaving, close to tears, over and over, only a kiss, only a kiss, and he can see it as clearly as though he was watching it himself. They're stumbling up to their bedroom, kissing, hugging, touching. Michael's shirt is already gone, and her slender, petite hands are stroking his broad, muscular, well-tanned chest, while his hands slip under her little black dress and pull, slowly, raising it over her head –

NO, his mind screams. But the visions, like the words, only a kiss, only a kiss, are on perpetual repeat.

Only a kiss –
She could never love you –
Pretend it never happened -
You deserve better –
Only a kiss -
Shouldn't have happened –
Holding hands, how did that happen –
Keep on smiling –
Only a kiss, only a kiss, only -

He collapses on the bed, shaking and heaving, about to puke, and wonders how had come to this.