A/N: His friends, you guessed it! Another not really edited, but sorta half-assed, brief Grammarly-run-through-it type of edited chapter. But I'll get there for sure. It should be readable at least, and if not, just yell at me and complain heaps. Enjoy!

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It didn't take much to convince me.

Taking our first taste of whiskey together, we shot them back simultaneously, coughing and spluttering from the burn down our throats. The pain in my lips dulled after the second shot, allowing them to press together properly and form proper, coherent words.

Alcohol was a miracle cure, albeit a temporary one.

All American Rejects played on his computer. We leaned against the side of his bed; legs stretched out across the floor. We chatted, knocking more drinks back until the burning sensation reduced to a smooth warm trickle down our throats. We'd been sharing some casual banter for a while now, enjoying a cruisy, relaxed atmosphere.

"How're you talking better than before?" Aubrey asked, dropping his head against my shoulder. "What's this magic?"

"My lips don't hurt anymore," I answered with a cheesy, tipsy giggle. "I can put my lips together now."

Even as I said that, just the letter p out of my mouth formed the sound of a bubble popping more than anything else. Still, at least now my words were legible. It was nice to see Aubrey out from the corner of my eye, smiling and bobbing his head along to the music.

I'd been conscious of Aubrey's concussion from the start. I made him promise that he'd be responsible and things easy. Before we started, I forced him to have two glasses of water with a full meal, reminding him to take sips of water in between, too. My foolproof argument had been, "If you die from this then I'll kill you." But he laughed each time I made the point, shaking his head with either secondary embarrassment or mild amusement.

We quietly hummed along to the music, occasionally following along with a few lines of lyrics. "Next shot?" I asked, to which he affirmatively, wholeheartedly agreed.

We reached for the whiskey bottle at the same time, currently stationed at knee-level between both of our legs. Aubrey's hand missed the mark, brushing past it quick enough that it knocked sideways. My hand caught it just in time, keeping it upright while grinning at him. "You're drunk already," I joked.

He shook his head, drooping his top lip solemnly. "Not drunk, just part blind."

I reflexively snorted.

He reached for the bottle more slowly this time. He grabbed my glass to pour me the first drink. As he held it out in front of him, I watched him squint, carefully focusing as he poured. The dark liquid poured directly beside the glass, pouring straight onto his pants.

Jumping with a start, he spilled some more over himself. This time, the liquid seeped into his shirt. I watched it cling to his skin while the room filled with a coconutty, oaky aroma with hints of butter and cream. And yes, I got descriptions of aged whiskey from poetry.

"Okay," he whispered, looking over at me. "Maybe a little drunk. There's no way I'd miss that sober."

I chuckled. Not because he missed, but because of his sheepish and embarrassed expression. I hoped he knew the difference.

"It's fine," I said, patting his hand assuredly. "Take a shower. It's barely after three so your parents won't be back forever."

He nodded and handed the bottle over to me. "Pour yourself another shot," he said as he got to his feet. "I'm leaving my hearing aid out here."

"Don't mind if I do-hoo," I said in sing-song response, doing a shoulder dance while I did exactly as he instructed. He pulled out his aid and set it on his bedside table before taking off his shirt and tossing it on the bathroom floor. Seconds later, he closed the door, blocking me off from any further enjoyment.

What a sight.

I downed another shot, then another.

The water started running as I recapped the bottle. I imagined spilling the entire lot of whiskey down my body, leaving me no choice but to join him in the shower. I chuckled, grinning at the thought. How hard would I get slapped if I pulled a stunt like that? Still, this alcohol made me feel like I could do just about anything.

A couple of minutes passed idly by.

Drumming my fingers on the floor, I decided that giving myself a little tour of Aubrey's room might be a fun way to pass the time. I stood up and stretched, letting out a satisfied groan when my lower back clicked. Other than products being rummaged in the shower, or caps clicking open or shut, there wasn't a lot of activity coming from the bathroom.

I traipsed around the room, running my fingers along everything in sight. His high set wooden drawers, I lifted my fingers to find traces of dust. I flicked it off and kept going. His touch lamp, the bathroom door handle... still entertaining the idea of risking that slap. I moved on, chuckling again. His wardrobe door handle. His bed; pretending I was smoothing out his bed covers.

Whistling, I glanced around the room, deciding to head for his bookshelf.

His bed was such a predominant feature that I didn't notice much else. But now I saw it; small and inconspicuously tucked away in the corner. It was a deep chestnut colored timber with four shelves that housed old tattered books. I strummed my fingers down the bindings, seeing some familiar works by classic poets.

Selecting one with a rustic deep green cover with faded gold writing, I flipped to the front and saw something barely legible scribbled from the top left corner.

Dear Aubrey,

Here is an ageless poet I thought you'd enjoy on your 12th birthday. Celebrate well and we'll make this year another good one.

Best wishes,

Robert

I closed the book and looked at the cover, reading the words John Keats Poems inscribed across Victorian gilt. I flicked through some chapters, finding Bright Star, La Belle Dame sans Merci, On Seeing the Elgin Marble, and a heap of others. It looked like an authentic classic print. Or at least a decent copy of one.

I started putting it back when a piece of paper flitted out from inside it. I halted, crouching down to pick it up. It was a polaroid photograph with Aubrey and the old man I remembered from the poetry museum. So, this was Old Man Robert, and Aubrey must've been the quiet little blonde kid who only spoke to agree with his grandad.

Out from the right corner of my eye, tucked just within view between the angular bookshelf and wall, I saw a box protruding into view. A big little box. One that could either be filled with sex toys or illicit drugs and blood money. Or something precious. Something worth storing away and hiding.

Going by my current opinion of Aubrey Keats, I decided that the latter suited him most. Placing the book back on the shelf, I pulled the box out, rotated the turnkey, and lifted the trunk. Inside it were some small diaries, letters, poems, and photographs buried inside it. My guess was right; something precious.

There were several photographs inside, some of Aubrey and Robert, and some with Mr. Hardy as well. That bit took me by surprise. Were they related or something? I had no idea. I looked through some of the titles, reading things like Dear Devil or Pinnacle Finding. They were written in a kid's messy writing, making me guess they must've been Aubrey's work.

Just as I started scanning the words, etching them into my mind, the bathroom door opened. I jumped with surprise, not having heard the water switch off. Aubrey came out with a towel wrapped around his waist, drying his ear with another. His blonde hair fell around him and down his shoulders, dripping wet...

Holy mother of...

I held the photo from the book up so he could see it, flitting it in my hand. "Old Man Robert's your grandad? That's so wild, I know him-"

I paused when he froze, watching confusion as it swept across his face. Then embarrassment, then anger. Oops, I forgot this was considered a massive invasion of privacy. Aubrey snatched his hearing aid and carelessly put it in, storming towards me. He yanked my arm and pulled me away from his things.

"What're you doing?" he yelled. I'd never seen him look this livid, almost stunning me into silence.

Heart pounding, I barely managed to speak. "What? I was just looking around-"

He looked down at my other hand, which I didn't realize I was holding some poems. His face crumbled, but hardened quickly, distorting with anger. He shot his hand out to snatch them from me. Without meaning to, I reflexively pulled them out of his grasp, taking us both by surprise.

He got angrier, gritting his teeth and yelling, "Cut the shit! Give 'em over!"

I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what he was doing. The alcohol was taking its toll, but I had to somehow calm him and diffuse the situation.

First, I needed to put the photo and papers down safely. He was still dripping wet, putting the papers in too much risk of being ruined.

Stepping forward, I crushed my body against his.

His hands moved to my chest as I forced him over his bed. There, I tossed the papers and pulled back, bringing him with me. He continued grappling my arms, wet hands causing water droplets to trickle down my skin. It was an odd sensation, but the more we wrestled, the more water he passed on to me.

Honestly? This was fun. Kinda hot.

Yanking his body against mine, I managed to force one hand down by his side, while just barely managing to immobilize his other. We were now stuck in a deadlock, with him looking at me with vehemence. Despite how much taller than me he was, he looked utterly sweet and adorable. Plus, I was stronger, giving him a struggle in trying to release himself from my grasp.

"Let go of me, you prick," he said, trying to slide his wet arms out of my grip. But I didn't. Behind tufts of hair, I could see his hearing aid starting to slide. He hadn't fixed it properly in place before coming at me. I wondered if he had too much pride to adjust it, or if he was too angry to even notice. He wrestled my grip, with no success, beginning to falter. "I said let go."

"Aubrey," I whispered, taking a deep breath and trying to calm myself before even attempting to calm him, too. Gently brushing his hair out of the way with my fingers, I readjusted his aid and fitted it properly, then let his hair go and watched it fall back into place. He looked confused, eyes looking into mine. "I'm sorry I upset you. I didn't mean it."

He was frowning. "Who's upset, idiot," he grumbled, relaxing his arms and ceasing fire. "No one's upset about a short-ass like you."

My mouth gaped as I released his arms. "...Hey now."

Neither one of us attempted to move, bodies still pressed together in a deadlock. His blue eyes studied mine, brows still furrowed, but he'd relaxed considerably. Maybe he was already too drunk for his own good, or maybe he was just receptive to my sincerity. I couldn't be too sure.

Aubrey Keats felt impossible to read.

"I did something I shouldn't," I continued, scratching my head sheepishly. "Sorry. Let's say it's the alcohol."

"You're the kind of idiot who'd do this anyway," he muttered, drying his hands before placing the papers back inside the box.

"That's why I meant pretend," I said, watching him close the trunk and slide it back behind the bookshelf. I'd already skimmed over the lines of one of his poems, feeling the words burn into my skull.

Aubrey picked up the whiskey bottle and skulled back most of what was left. He recapped it and threw it over to me, coughing from the burn. There was no doubt in my mind that he'd be inexorably sloshed after this.

Still wearing nothing but his towel, and still completely drenched, Aubrey slumped back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. I swigged the last of the whiskey and popped the bottle on his dressing table, laying down beside him. We didn't quite touch, but I was so conscious of him beside me that I thought my insides would burst in a flurry.

Aubrey mumbled something to himself that I didn't quite understand. Moments later, he was on top of me; straddling my lap. I stared up at him, shocked, wondering what in the hell he was up to. His eyes were red, glazed over. But the look in them told me he was putting on bravery, conscious of his choice.

Waiting for my reaction.

"Um, what are you doing?" I asked, hands unconsciously moving to his sides. He straddled me in nothing but a towel, staring down with unexpected clarity and a positive determination.

"What's it look like?" he asked, hands coming to my chest, now clutching my shirt.

"Um..." God, how do I approach this topic? "Aubrey, don't mind my asking this, but are you gay?"

He froze for a second, brows furrowing while he looked at me in confusion. "...No? I-I don't think so. Should I be?"

My heart sank, even though consciously, the sight in front and on top of me proved I was still on a winning streak here. I just didn't understand what he was playing at right now. Still, my fingertips stroked down the sides of his waist and he did nothing to brush me off. Instead, he stayed exactly as he was.

"I guess, um, it'd be reassuring in some way," I said. His frown got deeper and deeper until I wondered if it'd fall through quicksand.

"I'm literally straddling you right now..." he said, gripping my shirt tighter. "Is that not enough reassurance for you?"

I chuckled, bringing one hand to my chin and scratching it while I tried to process my thoughts. "There's also the fact that you're flaming drunk," I said.

When he didn't answer, I sat myself upright and wrapped my hands around his waist. He threw me a line and hook, and I was all too willing to take the bait. Even if he didn't mean to in this drunken state, he'd already well and truly caught me.

"Are you...gay?" he asked, looking at me with hesitance.

"There's honestly not even a single straight bone in my body," I answered, deciding honesty was probably the best policy to the guy literally straddling me in a towel. That was almost a lie, though. If he kept this up, there was about to be at least one straight bone in my body.

His shoulders drooped, looking away guiltily. He mumbled something, but I wasn't sure I heard correctly.

"Ikeisha?" I asked, fairly confident it's what I heard. "What's Ikeisha got to do with anything?"

He sighed and leaned down, burying his head against my chest. My instincts took over, even in my tipsy state, wrapping my arms completely around him and holding him here like this. One of my hands stroked his back, just gently, and I heard him sigh again. I couldn't believe this was happening. It seemed like a dream, something I couldn't quite get my head around.

"Can I ask a question?" I asked.

"You just did," he mumbled back.

I chuckled, feeling his head bobble with my chest, making me laugh even more.

"Why do people call me a clown, I wonder?" I asked, rolling my eyes even though he couldn't see it. "Yesterday in class... why did you ignore me?"

He straightened back up, holding my gaze for a mere second before averting his eyes. An embarrassed Aubrey was too sweet to be any good for my heart. Why did I spend so much time ogling over those sex-gods when something this precious walked among them all along? I wanted to squeal; he was too damned cute!

"My friend..." he said, faltering a little. "...Likes you."

"Ikeisha, then?" I asked.

His eyes widened. "How did you-"

"You literally just said her name out of the blue two seconds ago," I chuckled, taking my turn to bury my head against his chest. I felt his hands land on my shoulder, resting there. Something like a sense of peace settled over me, overwhelming me. It was so nice like this. "Then that's why you ignored me?"

A few seconds passed before he replied. "...Yeah."

"Don't do it again," I said, still stroking the bare skin on his back. It was warm and soft to the touch. I'd get lost in this feeling if he'd let me.

"...Yeah," he said again.

This moment was everything I didn't know I wanted or needed.