A knocking at the door awoke me the next morning. The sun was just barely over the window, so I guess it was about time that I got up anyway. I sat up and pushed my legs over the side of the bed, the springs creaking as I did so. I looked down to see that I had slept in my clothes from yesterday. I must've dozed off while reminiscing about all the times my cursed mother could have been a better one.

"John!" I heard my mother scream from across the house.

Damn, and to think she was 'ill'.

I stood up and walked through the living room to the door. I checked the peephole to see the same man from yesterday evening. There was no way he could have gotten confused again, so I was very thrown off by his presence. I opened the door slowly and hesitantly. "Yes?"

"Umm, hello. You might remember me from yesterday," he stuttered out with a smile. I opened the door farther so that I stood in the frame. He seemed unusually nervous. He also seemed to have been favoring one leg.

"I do. Do you need anything?" I asked suspiciously. I looked the stranger up and down, trying to decipher what he'd need at this hour. He didn't look injured or anything of the sort. In fact, he looked fine. Not just fine, no; that was an understatement. Although he was wearing the common black vest and trousers, dark red necktie, and a beige coat, he looked as if he was the most elegant creature on the planet. Tall and lean with light brown hair and dark brown eyes... he was very handsome indeed. Even slouching, he was easily 5'10". Not to mention, he had high cheekbones and a dimple on his left side when he smiled too. (It was rather adorable.)

"I'd like to invite you to get a drink with me," he said with great pride. He seemed certain that my answer was a ‘yes’, even before he asked. I thought that he must have been pretty popular with the girls if he expected me to just agree. Well, I meant that he must have gotten a lot of attention. I was not comparing myself to a woman; it was just...

"What's your name, age, and why are you inviting me?" I questioned him. This man expected that I would agree to get drinks with someone I'd never met but only once to give directions. How stuck up.

"My name is Thomas Fery. I am nineteen years of age. I would like to invite you, (insert your name here), to get drinks with me," he said in a fake posh accent whilst grinning and bowing over. He looked up to me, and I smiled back.

"I'd like to hear the same," Thomas continued, standing upright again.

Adjusting my coat by the collar and puffing my chest sarcastically, I started, "Hello, my name is John Mark, and I am sixteen. I would like to accept your invitation for drinks. I would also like to know what time it is."

"I could tell you, John," Thomas looked down as he pulled out his pocket watch, "that it is currently 6:48 A.M."

"May I ask why you are knocking at my door so early?"

"I, uh," he paused to scratch the back of his neck, "I needed to run some errands."

"At six A.M.?"

"Well, they're out of town."

"Right, of course. So when and where?" I asked raising an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, what?" Thomas asked, shocked and panicked.

I chuckled, "The drinks, not the errands. Although, I have a feeling there are no errands to be run."

He looked down quickly, but I had seen a glimpse of his red cheeks before he turned away.

"I'll walk you there. I'll swing by around five. Are you free then?" He was nervous again.

I could have acted as if I wasn't and told him maybe another time. I could have agreed and not shown. I could’ve said so many other things, but I didn't know why I felt compelled to say ‘yes’ and mean it too.

I nodded, "Until then."

"Until then, I suppose,” he beamed, giving me a polite farewell and leaving, and I never thought anything of it.

I sighed and shut the door, ready to go back to bed, but I felt a presence behind me. I turned around to see my mother standing with her arms crossed over her chest, looking as if her clock was a tick off.

"Yes, Mother?" I groaned.

"I will not have you running off with that stranger this evening," she huffed.

"I'm an adult now; I don't need your input, and his name is Thomas," I retorted.

I had thought about 'not being home' when Thomas arrived, but her resistance to him gave me all the more reason to go. I wanted to spite that evil witch. Sure, that might have been petty, but apparently, petty is what I excel in.

"You are my son and only sixteen, most certainly not an adult at all. I will not have you getting into those homosexual rumors about the men around here."

"I'm not a faggot, but if that is what you think of me, I might as well go. I wasn’t even planning on it, but if I did, it would mean nothing. Can't I have friends whilst I'm taking care of you?" I tried to reason with her, but she was one stubborn ass.

"If I find you doing fairy" —she gesticulated mindlessly— "stuff or anything of the sort, I will make sure your father's old friend, Miller, hears of it."

I disregarded her with a dismissive wave and walked past her into my room, ignoring anything she said after. She was so determined to label me as a disappointment, even before I did anything. If that didn’t give me more reason to stop caring, then what did? I couldn’t have made her happy, so why did I ever try? Why did I ever care?

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I was tugging on my coat in the mirror of my dresser. The collar wouldn't stay straight. Why I wanted everything to be so perfect, I couldn't say. I had combed my hair at least three times, changed my vest twice, and fixed that damned collar six times. I finally gave up and sat on the edge of my bed, anxious to make new friends. Not much later, I heard the rap of knuckles on my door, so I checked the mirror once more instinctively.

I did it again. I was going out for drinks, not getting married.

I walked to the front door and put my hand on the knob, doubting myself for a split second, but before I could decide against anything, I twisted it and pulled it open. Immediately I came face to face with Thomas who leaned against the doorway, cigarette in hand. His messy person was now pulled together, every piece of fabric straightened and every strand of hair in its place. Well, almost every strand. A single rebellious curl of the mocha brown hair fell softly into his eyes.

"Ready?" Thomas grinned. His dimple... it mocked me.

I nodded, exhaling a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"Then let's go," he said, putting out the cigarette on the wall then grabbing my arm to pull me along. He didn't let go until we were out of the miserable building, but he kept standing close to guide me. The silence between us was only slightly awkward. Our steps were the only thing I could hear, each foot hitting the ground with a dull click against the wet pavement. I couldn’t piece together exactly why he had invited me. We didn’t know each other in the slightest, and we hadn’t really talked before. Then again, that’s why you invite people to things; you can get to know them.

As we rounded a corner of a street, I saw a sign hanging from the outside of what I supposed was a bar. 'Pen Ink's' was scrawled out in script letters with an inkpot and quill next to it. What a strange name for a bar.

When we approached the door, Thomas sped up a bit to open it for me, gesturing for me to go in ahead of him. I gave him a nod as thanks and stepped inside. Looking around, there was a small bar against the left wall and a small stage in the corner to my right where a woman was singing a soft melody. Some chairs were placed at four tables that were uneven and tilted, and there were only two other customers present. One was rambling on about his life from birth to death to the bartender who didn't seem to be paying any attention as he wiped down the counters, and the other was passed out on one of the tables, his glass barely an inch away from his fingertips.

Thomas stepped in behind me, placing a hand on the small of my back. "How are you doing, Günther?” he called out.

The bartender, Günther, looked up and smiled. “It's the Fery boy!” he shouted back in a heavy German accent.

I watched Günther walk around the bar quickly and make his way toward Thomas, seeming relieved to get away from the drunken monologist. Thomas opened his arms to the German, and they embraced each other affectionately as old friends, exchanging greetings and ‘long-time-no-see'-s. Then, the older man seemed to notice me at last.

"And who might this be, Tom? Another one of your boys?" Günther asked while raising an eyebrow.

"No, I wouldn't hope so," Thomas chuckled.

I didn't quite understand, but the tone didn't seem offensive, so I didn’t think about it all too much. I just let it go and stuck my hand out to the bartender. "John Mark, nice to meet you."

In a perfect American accent, Günther replied, "Likewise."

His sudden change in voice shocked me for a moment before I realized that he was teasing me as he burst with laughter. Was that a trick he tried to pull on people often? I’ll admit, it wasn’t half bad. It got him the reaction he wanted.

"Ah, all is well. My shift just ended," Günther concluded in his regular accent again as the door opened behind us. I turned to see another man enter the bar and step past me to shake hands with Günther. Then, the man took the spot behind the bar and started on routine activities. Günther gave Thomas one last touch on the shoulder with a half-smile before leaving.

Thomas didn’t hesitate to grab my arm and sit me down at the bar. "Two shots, please,” he said, raising his fingers up to reiterate the number two.

This new bartender looked a lot more menacing than Günther. So much more in fact, that I was quite terrified of the look he had on his face when he sat the two drinks down, but I suppose such a threatening man deterred criminals from acting up during the night shift.

Thomas immediately grabbed the two glasses, passing one to me. "Bottoms up!” he cheered, swinging his drink in the air before pouring it down his throat.

I took mine and did the same, except a lot less enthusiastically. I felt the burn as the strange liquid slipped down my throat, and I coughed. I don’t know how he acted the way he did, so happy and carefree. It was amazing and enthralling. I think that’s really what drew me to him.

"Hey Thomas," I started, waiting for his attention, "can I call you Tom?"

A smile broke across his face, and he turned back to the other man without answering me directly.

"Hit me again," Tom demanded, shoving his glass forward.

And so we drank.

I don’t recall how much we drank actually. It’s all pretty blurry, and after about thirty minutes, I had lost count. I just suddenly found myself up on the stage, singing obnoxiously whilst my arm was thrown around Tom’s neck and his around my waist. Okay, Tom wasn’t so much as singing as he was humming, but we were drunk as skunks, so it was understandable.

Our coats and neckties were splayed over a few of the chairs in front of us, and generally, we were a mess. Tom's straightened hair was now all disheveled as he swayed back and forth on the stage with me, and I was... I don’t even want to think about how out of it I probably looked.

But Tom had started smiling a couple of shots ago and his dimple hadn’t gone away since. He was almost all I could look at.

"Aaaand he'd sit and fiddle alllll the niiiight and all the da-ay," I slurred as Thomas tripped over, making me giggle as we shuffled back into place.

"Yesss, try the roaaad, the kiiindly squat-ter said," Thomas sang for once, and despite being drunk, it wasn't half bad. Maybe it was the alcohol, but it sounded nice. I'd love to hear it sober.

By that time, we were the only ones there apart from James, the bartender who I'd learned the name of whilst throwing back shots. But as Tom and I continued our terrible singing and off-beat swaying, James decided enough was enough and went into the back, finally leaving us alone to ourselves, which Tom apparently took as a cue for his hands to venture farther down.

He didn't seem to show any reaction as he kept singing, so I thought it must’ve been an accident. But every few lines, his hand would go a little farther down, confirming that his actions were unequivocally on purpose. When Tom eventually realized that I had stopped singing, his hand was already dipping down into my waistband.

"You good, John?" he asked me gently, still not moving his hand.

I shook my head. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t tell why. I was suddenly so anxious.

Why aren’t I disgusted? Why am I not repulsed? Why haven't I punched him and walked out? Why am I still here?

"What's wrong?" Thomas pouted as he stepped in front of me and placed his other hand down on my hip.

I couldn’t think straight. Tom was right there in front of me, so close but not close enough, and all I wanted to do was close that distance. I didn't feel drunk anymore, but I didn’t know what I felt.

He moved in and hovered his lips right over the left side of my neck. "I could always make you feel better,” he purred.

My breath hitched, and he heard it. I felt him smirk as the blush spread through my cheeks. The way my stomach sunk down and my chest tightened definitely made me feel better alright. It was like every place he touched me was hyperaware of it, and I just wanted—

I felt something wet and warm roll over my skin before a sharp pinching pain pierced my neck. My hands found their way onto his back, and I dug my nails into him with a hiss. I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead onto his shoulder, biting my lip to suppress the sounds in my throat.

He bit me. He had actually bit me.

And I was not repulsed. I was not disgusted. I was not angry. And I was not fine because I wanted...

No, that’s wrong.

I needed more.