Usually H liked going to parties. But this one, this one was different. He was immediately familiar with the mood as he stepped onto the freshly cut grass. Before H was a two-story suburban house built of red brick–and currently covered in webs of toilet paper. From the windows he could see the flashing multicolored lights blinking in the night and silhouettes of other partiers. He was alone on the lawn, fashionably late–his trademark. H quickly stepped off the grass as to not get his oxford shoes wet and walked up to the front door. Before putting his hand on the shiny doorknob, H noticed puddles of vomit all over the perfectly manicured shrubs on the left side of the door. H grimaced. I must be later than I thought.

When walking in, H felt immediately at home. Mildly tipsy minors checking their chances at getting lucky tonight already took the few couches that made up the living room. There was no coffee table. Instead, a beer-stained white rug was treaded upon by teens swaying to the music and littered with red plastic cups. H strode silently through the dancing mass and over to the drink table–the perfect surveying area. His eyes swept over the room as H poured himself a drink from the keg, a drop spreading on the cuff of his white button-down. Crap. Just then, Ben waved outlandishly to H from the middle of the dance floor, stumbled in the process, and spilled beer all over his dance partner. Ben nudged the guy next to him and he made a point in ogling the soaked girl for a few moments before she cried in disgust and stormed upstairs. The guy next to Ben shook his head as if to say, “not cool”. Ben cursed and ran a shaky hand through his chestnut hair. Snapping out of it, Ben cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled for his friend to join him. H shook his head–“no”– and smirked. Do you really know me at all, Ben? Chugging the last of his drink, Ben tossed the cup over his shoulder and began charging through the herd of adolescents. A couple split up by his shoving yelled at him. Ben spun on his heel, checked out the girl who yelled at him, and winked provocatively so everyone in a 3-foot radius could see. She narrowed her eyes while covering her lacy pink top with her arms. Her boyfriend flipped Ben the bird as he led her consolingly to one of the crowded sofas.
“Ass.”
Ben was not affected by the comment. It was not the first time he’d been called that, and it certainly would not be the last. In fact, Ben was slightly disappointed the boy didn’t say something more colorful. Ben tumbled the last few steps to his more collected friend standing in front of the mahogany table. Ten steps is a 50-mile journey to the intoxicated mind.
“The hell are you doing, just standing here?” Ben shouted over the thump of the nearby speakers.
“I’m simply watching,” H replied.
“WHAT?!” Is the beat getting louder?
Ben held a hand to his sweaty ear. H groaned and steered his drunken friend through the dance floor, past Ye Olde Roome of the Potheads, sweet-smelling smoke seeping under the bathroom door, past the chaotic dining room with people jumping on the tables and simultaneously playing beer pong, and into the stainless steel kitchen. Ben flopped onto the marble island. The music was only a low thrum here. Ben looked up at him, suddenly dead serious.
“I like your suit.”

H looked at Ben’s tee and jeans, and then at his Hugo Boss jacket. Dressed to impress.
“I’m always dressed like this…” H stated.
“Ermh, well, there is something I need to tell you, man. I’m…” Ben took a deep breath.
“A jerk?” A voice appeared right behind H; a deep, manly, football-player voice. H and Ben both focused their attention on the brawny adolescent leaning on the kitchen doorway.
“Oh, that’s cute. Why don’t you go back to the living room and call your buddies poopy-heads?” Ben changed his attitude in a matter of seconds. One could practically see the steam coming from the nostrils of the bull-like athlete. H looked at himself and Ben-skinny as pinpricks- and nudged his friend.
“Dude, maybe we shouldn’t insult the big guy,” H murmured.
“Why? The fun’s just starting!” Ben swaggered his way on over to the ox and looked at him, expecting a counter-insult.
“You looked at my girlfriend,” the animal grunted.
“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, what can you do about it?” Ben grinned ear-to-ear while looking back at his anxious friend. Immediately the bull punched Ben in the face. Ben clutched his nose and cursed-loud enough to draw attention from other party guests who came in the kitchen looking excited. Ben drew his hand back from his bleeding nose and narrowed his eyes at the footballer. He then threw himself on him.

The two wrestled on the ground for what seemed about a minute. The really helpful guy who shouted “FIGHT!” drew an even bigger audience. Ben and the ox rolled around the floor, grunts and foul words escaping both of them as they interchanged punches, kicks, strangles and occasionally sissy slaps. It was only when Ben accidentally kicked the refrigerator and broke his toe was when the bull got the advantage. He kneeled next to Ben, held his torso still with one hand and mercilessly connected his fist with Ben’s face. Over and over and over. Blood and even a tooth or two splattering on the floor made the other guests step back as their faces contorted in disgust-that then turned to pity. The room was silent except for the sound of contact and some people saying, “enough, please, that guy is so small, can’t you stop?” The guy finished beating him. The ox shook his bruised hand and stiffly walked away. All the other onlookers slowly trickled away after him, leaving only H and Ben in the kitchen. Ben sat up and laughed a hoarse, wet laugh.
“What were you doing, picking on that buff dude? He beat you to a pulp,” H remarked, walking over to where Ben half lay, half sat. Ben shrugged.
“I guess I just wanted a fight. Can’t I have that?” H furrowed his brows.
“Where’s Marcie? She’d know what’s going on.” Ben sighed and put both his hands on his face. He sniffed loudly and he wiped his face. Ben blinked his dark eyes repeatedly.
“Marcie’s not here.”
“I can see that. Because if she were, she’d whoop your behind for ‘undressing those girls with your eyes’,” H tried to be the joker now.
“Look, can we just drop it?” Ben said sharply. H looked as if he were about to say something and then stopped himself. He bent his head down and shook it, his hands deep in the pockets of his creased slacks.
“Alright.”
“Thank you,” Ben remarked. There was only a moment of awkward silence before Ben ran to the sink where he was violently sick. H rushed over to Ben and pushed his hair back as his friend puked a second time. Ben slunk onto the floor and sat there with his hands trembling between his legs-eyes closed and breath rattling. H awkwardly sat cross-legged next to his wasted friend.
“How did you get here?” H asked softly.
“Drove.”
H groaned. Why does this have to happen every time? Following the usual procedure, H took his phone out from the jacket pocket and began scrolling through the contact list, about to call Ben’s girlfriend.
“Don’t. Call. Marcie.”
H froze.
“Why not…?” H treaded carefully.
“We…we broke up. I broke up. With her,” Ben stuttered.
“What?”
“I…I don’t like her anymore.”
“But just a few days ago you guys were so into each other!”
“Well, it’s not just her I don’t like. It’s…girls,” Ben shyly looked away.
“What? Like at this party? Because you were looking at them like- ”
“I was FA-KING,” Ben interrupted.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought we were bros…?” H sounded hurt.
“That’s the thing,” Ben mumbled.
H could only think for a moment about what the hell that could mean before his best friend leaned in and kissed him. When H drew back, he was amused.
“I guess I know why you wanted to pick a fight: wrestling on the floor with another man,” H teased.
“Oh, shut up.” And Ben kissed him again.