Disclaimer: I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.
Author's Note: Flames are welcome. This is dedicated to Allison because she actually suggested the pairing. Don't be afraid to point out any mistakes because I hardly catch them. For once, nothing graphic happens, so you don't need to shield your eyes. Read and enjoy.

As you watch him from the corner of your eye, a puff of smoke swirls from your lips. The moon reminds you of that plate you broke earlier, and you can't tell if it's going to start dripping from the sky or hang there and mock you. Every time you exhale, it's as if you're trying to breathe away the feeling between your lungs. Sticky, air-tight and chaffed. You half wonder if under all that tan skin and sculpted muscle, he's feeling the same way.

So what if he is? You sound like a broad, pinning over the guy with the biggest arms and deepest voice. He's good-looking, but not in that pretty-boy way. His brother is pretty—like a girl. Sometimes it makes you wonder if his brother is the same way as you. You could find out, you know, but as it stands, you'd rather not. If anyone ought to, it's that friend of his. Spending all that time together, pumping gas and Lord knows what else, and you know something has to have happened by now.

It almost makes you jealous because his brother is the easy one. You know they're inside now, and you know it's that friend's fault you're feeling this. He brought the beer and said it was celebratory. The Sooners won. That Bobby Warmack sure can run.

But fuck Bobby Warmack; it's not his fault you think you need another drink. It has nothing to do with football, or celebrating, or being sick and depraved. Luckily you're still young enough to blame this on being hormonal and deprived of sex, even though you remember exactly what happened after you took Kathy home last night. You're sure you still smell like her, and her lipstick is still on your shirt collar, bright and smudged into the fabric.

You would've changed, but you like the way it reminds you of who you're not supposed to be with. At this point, you really don't know if it's him or her, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't care. If, for one second, you think this is normal, you're wrong. Wanting him this badly is wrong. It's disgusting, and if someone were to tell you that you're diseased, you'd believe them with every inebriated fibre of your being.

Sometimes, when you've had a few too many, and you start slurring a little too much, you believe what everyone tells you. You've always been fascinated by how much smoother words seem when laced with liquor. They're always so much more convincing, said with a certain fervour that has to make them true because a lie could never sound that good. It could never plague you with the visuals you get when you're alone, spinning them into absurd fantasies you have to twist the facts to fit.

You don't like the facts. There's a reason you try ignoring them and bending them beyond any recognition. You want to have the satisfaction of fictitious thinking because, when you have that, there's nothing to stop you from hoping that maybe—just maybe—he could want you in the same way that you want him. One day, your fantasies could become something real, and the idea scares you more than it excites you.

That's why you keep watching him. He hasn't noticed, so you start willing away the clenching in your gut and the tingling under your skin. As your blood vessels tighten, and you start feeling sick, it's clear that you can only do one thing. It's not an epiphany, and it doesn't ease the tension in your muscles, but the realization leaves you with a sense of yearning. What you crave worse than the nicotine in your cigarettes is right beside you, and you can't have it. All you can do is watch, and hope, and pray that your selfish, impulsive behaviour doesn't get the better of you.

If you were to stop thinking about how good it'd feel to be pressed between him and the side of the house, your hands might stop shaking, and you wouldn't have to worry about unintentionally making yourself obvious. He's plastered, but not oblivious. You know he'll catch on if you don't stop acting like a total sketch, even though it's probably not any different from how you normally act around him.

Lately, you haven't been yourself. Your jokes have been stiffer, you've been devoid of any feeling other than lust, and every time you find the need to jack off, it's because of him. You picture his face, imagine his breath on your neck, feel his hand around your cock. It's never Kathy's face, or hands, or lips you think about. You haven't thought about her like that since the beginning of last month. Nearly eight weeks—fifty-six days—of pretending, and lying, and trying to convince yourself that you're not this way, and you know you're going to go down, regardless of whether or not you're able to keep everything contained. Because, in one way or another, you're going to sink yourself. It's inevitable.

You've been drowning in something you can't control. It started as something you were going to get over because you were supposed to. The more you thought about it, the more you knew it would pass. He was a phase, like rookie baseball cards and cartoons on Saturday mornings. It wasn't supposed to progressively get worse, and you weren't supposed to let it get out of hand. But as the days turned to weeks, and you watched the weeks turn to months, you've come to realize that this disease you have is incurable.

Unfortunately, it's not the sort of sickness you can turn around and infect him with. It's something you were born with. You'll go to hell for it, never knowing if succumbing to what's inside was ever really worth the grief. They say that the first step to fixing a problem is admitting you have one, but no matter how many times you sit in your room, telling yourself over and over that there is something wrong with you—you have a problem—it never gets fixed. You don't know why you think it would; it's not a goddamn AA session. There's nobody you can talk to because unlike junkies and alcoholics, you can't just group together with all the neighbourhood faggots and heal through a little therapy once or twice a week.

That makes you snicker. You rub your nose with your thumb, and your face feels all sorts of warm as you shake your head and lean against the railing. The porch groans under your feet, but that could've been you. Looking at him, watching him, you see his mouth move, but you don't hear the words. Instead, you're being told to for once in your life get what you want. This isn't a joke, and it isn't a hallucination. He's close enough to touch, to feel and to taste. It would be easy, and even if he did end up breaking your jaw over it, it would be worth it.

A fear of the unknown is what prevents you from doing anything stupid. You can try and predetermine how he'll react, but you don't know, just like you don't know if you'll still want him after you have him. It's possible that you like the idea of him, but you don't know because you've never been with him. And you never will be. You're going to have to suffice with wishful thinking and a suppressed attraction to someone who'll never want or need you back.

It's better that way. He's the type that puts his family first, and he has these lousy bums for friends on top of two brothers that need supporting. If it weren't for that, he could really be somebody and go somewhere. You...you'll just keep slinking around, failing school and telling jokes. The biggest joke ever told—the biggest prank, or pun, or funny—is you. Because everybody knows you're a do-nothing that's going nowhere. He sees it, you see it. The other five people in the house see it.

Sighing, you shove your hands into your pockets and squeeze your eyes shut. The haze subsides long enough for you to look at him. You don't know what he's doing out here. He doesn't smoke, and he's never enjoyed your company, yet he's standing here, waiting. It's typical that you'd read into it, but by this point, you're holding onto anything you can. Maybe you can tie all the loose threads together and make a rope. Maybe you can use that rope to pull yourself out of this hole you're in. You're starting to feel like you've been kept underground for the last two decades. All this dirt is beginning to smother you.

When he gives you that grin and shakes his head, you shiver. Your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek, and you figure this is as good of a time to leave as any. Yet you're rooted, openly gawking at him. But he doesn't understand because he's just as wasted as you are. You know he's thinking about Warmack, and the Sooners, and how he needs to get up for work in the morning. He's thinking about how cold it is out here, and how he can see his own breath, and how he'd rather be inside. It's all over his face. There's nothing there about you. It's like you don't exist. He's not looking at you, but past you, even though you're right in front of him. He probably wouldn't even notice if you touched him.

You almost do. Your fingers twitch in your pockets, begging you to move. He's so close that you can smell the liquor on his breath and the sweat in the fabric of his shirt. All he does is rake a hand through his hair, but watching him move leaves you breathless and dizzy. None of this makes any sense. Last time you checked, you were a guy, and he's a guy, and guys don't lust after other guys. They chase glossy bits of skirt and brag about all the women they've slept with.

As your leg starts to bounce, you try to count on two hands how many drinks you've had. Ten fingers never have been enough. You blink, and something shatters inside. He grumbles, rolls his eyes and claps you on the shoulder. Before you know it, you're alone, reeling and hating that you actually thought with the head between shoulders instead of your legs. Had he been a woman, you would've acted to rid yourself of all your wanting and needing. But that's it—had he been a woman.

There's too much testosterone crammed into one house. Rolling your shoulders forward, you decide you can't go back in there. You'll do something stupid because it's what you're good at. Leaving is probably the worst thing you could do, and even though you've lost, it doesn't hurt so badly because you chose to.

You light yourself another smoke and push yourself away from the railing. They're laughing, but you don't look. You keep your back to the door and stumble down the front steps, knowing you won't be making it home tonight.

Kathy's bed is always open.

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