Jesse, being the good mate he was, waived the cover charge and Chris finally saw fit for us to go in.  And if I thought the music was loud in the foyer, inside it was damn near deafening. The pounding bass assaulted my body like a hundred little boxing jabs. I lost Chris almost immediately, his dual-coloured hair disappearing into the sea of dreads, spikes and bold coloured dyes.

I stood uncomfortably by the dance floor, so crowded I could've sworn I felt heat emanating from the crush of bodies.  At least I didn't have to worry about being recognised.  It didn't look as though half of the patrons even saw the light of day, and most of them seemed like they'd rather commit suicide than listen to B105.  I stood, hypnotised by the teeming mosh, watching the spiked and studded crowd move with abandon to rough and rank chords I'd never have thought anyone could dance to.

"Oi."

I barely heard Chris's voice, it was the sharp nudge to my spine that made me turn. He pressed a glass into my hand.

"What's this?" I surveyed the brown liquid swishing around in the glass, ice cubes clinking.

He shouted something back, but it had to many syllables to carry across so I missed it.

"What?" I shouted back.

"Bourbon!" He just about screamed into my ear.

"I don't drink alcohol." I went pass the glass back but he seemed to have slipped into a coma. I wish I could've preserved the look on his face. Priceless. I might have just confessed to alien heritage.

When he finally moved, it was to give me a wrinkled-nose smirk. He leaned in to speak in my ear, a misleadingly intimate motion.

"Just drink it, ya wuss." He muttered, obviously fighting laughter. A smile tugged at his lips, and I wont say what that smile did for his face. But I will throw in one descriptor: adorable.

So I drank it.  Incredible. Dan had been trying to siphon hard liquor into me for years and I had mercilessly stuck by my resolve, but one word from a make-up wearing punk and suddenly I was a drinker? I would've been ashamed if wasn't so busy being shocked.

I didn't mind the taste of the bourbon, so I had another. And another. I even started buying my own.  The world started to get a little fuzzy around the edges. I guess after being sober so long I was a bit of a lightweight. Two pot screamer I think Chris called it.

Chris. Funny how the rest of the world got hazy but he stayed in sharp focus. Without the stress of management breathing down our necks, away from all the frustrations of trying to write the impossible co-op he was a totally different person. I was surprised to discover that when he wasn't trying to shit me to tears he could actually be quite charming. Easygoing, funny, even shy. Bluest eyes. Cutest smile. I loved the way he wrinkled his nose up when he laughed... //What are you thinking Hayes, these aren't safe thoughts.//

I stopped concentrating on the distractingly attractive Cheney, and focused on the music. It was intense. I studied it, paying close attention and soon it stopped sounding like one endless rant of heavy drums and scattered guitar solos. Singular songs began to emerge, with their own sound and feel. I could appreciate the energy, the raw intensity of Chris's sound.

I wanted to share this revelation with my new punk friend, but as I was about to discover, alcohol doesn't exactly do wonders for the art of communication.

"This music. It's like you." I struggled to explain, tripping over my tongue.

"Wha?" He shouted back, the bourbon having stolen his 't's. "I don't get it."

"It's... raw, intense and full on but - underneath... there's..."

"There's what?" Funny, he looked like he *really* wanted to know. Pity I couldn't untie my tongue long enough to express it.

"I don't know." I giggled, suddenly finding my stupidity vaguely amusing.

He rolled his eyes and wrinkled his nose in that adorable way. //Down boy.// Ok there's a new event. My cock didn't want leap out my pants when he did that three hours ago.

"So my music's like me?" he challenged. "Well, your music's like you."

"Hmm?" I prompted, overly-loud.

"It's..." He gave it a fair bit of thought, "Pretty." He finally categorised, nodding confidently.

//He thinks I'm pretty!// The revelation came as something of a shock to me. I struggled to find something to say that wasn't going to embarrass me.

"You think I'm pretty?" Nope, that's not what I wanted to say. It just kind of blurted itself out. I bit my lip as if to punish my mouth for misbehaving like that.

Chris stared at me, swaying slightly with intoxication, looking like he was mulling over the question rather intensely.

"Yeah." He finally admitted, somehow defiant and shy at the same time.  I was speechless. About a million thoughts were cantering through my mind, none of them slowing down long enough for me to catch them. //He thinks I'm pretty.// //Is this a come on?// //How drunk is he?// //How drunk am I?// //Christ, these pants are getting tight...//

Even in our mutually drunken states, it was an awkward moment. I was caught between leaning in and kissing him and running and hiding. Obviously I didn't act quick enough on either of these instincts because Chris was the first to break the stalemate.

"I'm going to the bar - you want another?" He tossed out. Looks like he was going to succumb to the flight response.

"Yeah, sure, why not?" I half-shouted back. I'd come this far - why settle for anything less than complete drunken catatonia? I fought a niggling disappointment as I watched his back disappear into the crush. //What are you thinking, Hayes? You can't really be *attracted* to this guy, can you?// But I did feel a distinct sense of loss at his departure. And I couldn't help but notice how cute he looked on the rare occasions when he smiled.

//Admit it, you like him.//

//Yeah, alright so maybe I do. But look at him - he's as homophobic as they come.//

//But he thinks you're pretty.//

//He thinks I'm pretty.//

I wasn't sure if the flush of warmth was from pleasure or intoxication, but either way it spurred me into action. Fighting my way through the sweaty masses, I found him in the crush of the bar queue. I managed to weasel my way into the crowd so I was standing behind him. Like right up behind him. I'm talking physical I-can-feel-your-back-against-my-chest contact. It was kinda nice. I announced my prescence with a shouted,

"Whatcha getting?" He glanced back at me, kinda surprised I'd joined him.  He recovered himself pretty quickly, calling back,

"Shots."

"Great." I answered with more enthusiasm than I felt. Like we weren't smashed enough already.

I didn't really need the QF. And I most certainly didn't require the tequila - although it was reward enough in itsellf to watch Chris licking salt from the back of his hand. I couldn't help but imagine watching him licking other things... //Give it up Hayes, this is only gonna hurt later.// I slapped my inner voice into a corner and turned my attention back to Chris.  He was definitely hammered. He couldn't even stand straight, and he seemed to have lost the ability to hold still, his body moving of it's own accord ever-so-slightly to the now barely registering thump of punk music.

He grinned sloppily at me and sipped his beer chaser. I returned his smile and we might have had a moment if management hadn't taken that opportunity to turn on the dreaded Ugly Lights. The fluros flickered on and I fought the urge to cover my eyes against the blinding greenish glare.

"Woah, what's all this then?" Chris demanded of the bartender. "It's only two am."

"New closing time mate, we're going under, gotta shorten the hours or we're done for." The pierced glass-polisher tossed back, looking genuinely sad about it.  Chris paused for a moment, as if in mourning for the state of the club, then he seemed to snap out of it, punching me in the arm.

"C'mon Hayes, let's split."

Outside in the chilled air by a cab rank, I nudged Chris. We were both still swayingly drunk and I didn't feel ready to go home just yet.

"So where to next?"

"Must be your turn to choose, eh?"

"Alright. I know a place that'll still be open."