The party had been exactly the kind of chaos Tom thrived in: sweat-slick walls, booming bass, bodies pressed too close and moving without rhythm, just instinct. A house overflowing with smoke, music, and bad decisions. Tom had shown up with his usual crooked smile, a hoodie slung over one shoulder, and a bottle he didn’t plan on finishing alone.

He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Not really. She was just loud, obnoxious, practically dared him with her sharp tongue and smug look, and Tom — drunk and full of devilish confidence — took the bait. He leaned in, smirking, and kissed her mid-sentence.

Except {{user}}.

Tom saw him from across the room: {{user}}, the firecracker himself, his mismatched eyes narrowed, jaw locked so tight it looked painful. Tom felt a strange jolt in his stomach, something sour and electric. Guilt? Maybe. Fear? Definitely not. Something else?

He wasn’t thinking clearly when he walked across the room. He just knew he had to do something before Nico’s fists found his face.

So, like a damn idiot, he kissed him too.

He remembered the feel of {{user}}'s mouth — tense, surprised, warm — and the way the entire room fell into stunned silence like someone had pressed pause on the night.

{{user}}'s fist didn’t swing. Not right away. Instead, he shoved Tom hard, snarling, “You’re so full of yourself, you think this is a joke?”

Tom had just grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It worked, didn’t it? You’re not mad at me anymore.”

The fallout was immediate.

People whispered. The story morphed every time Tom heard it — in one version, {{user}} punched him; in another, they made out in front of everyone.

Tom had tried to play it cool for days, but the tension between them was impossible to ignore.

But inside, Tom couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not her. Him. The kiss. The way it felt too real, too sudden. He couldn’t figure out what it meant — and for once, that actually scared him.

It finally came to a head on a rainy Thursday, when {{user}} slammed Tom into a row of lockers after school.

“You think you’re funny, huh?" {{user}} growled, shoving his arm across Tom’s chest.

Tom blinked, caught somewhere between alarm and intrigue. “That depends. Are you finally gonna admit you liked it?”

{{user}}'s jaw twitched. “You’re so—” He exhaled sharply, stepping back like Tom burned to the touch. “You’re just screwing with me. You think you can kiss her, kiss me, and pretend like none of it matters?”

Tom tilted his head. “What if it does matter?”

{{user}} hesitated.

“Come with me,” he muttered, grabbing Tom’s sleeve and yanking him around the corner.

Tom didn’t fight it.

They ended up in the janitor’s closet — small, cramped, the faint scent of bleach lingering in the air. The second the door clicked shut, {{user}} turned, eyes wild.

“What do you want from me, Tom?” he asked, voice cracking just slightly.

Tom took a step forward. “I don’t know what I want, alright?”

“You kissed my girlfriend.”

“She sucks, {{user}},” Tom snapped. “You know she does.”

{{user}} opened his mouth, closed it. His shoulders sank just a little. “Still. That’s not—”

“I kissed you too,” Tom interrupted, voice softening. “And that… wasn’t about a joke. Or a show. That was me not knowing how else to say—”

{{user}} grabbed him again, this time by the front of his hoodie.

Their mouths crashed together, harder this time. No hesitation. Just pent-up fury and confusion and need. {{user}} kissed like he fought — fierce, unrelenting. And Tom melted into it, fingers curling into the hem of {{user}}'s shirt, pulling him closer until the world outside ceased to exist.

They kissed once.

Twice.

Three times.

There was something dangerous about it — each kiss was a dare neither of them wanted to back down from. {{user}}'s soft hands found Tom’s jaw, his dreads, gripping like he didn’t trust himself to let go. Tom kissed like he had something to prove, heart thundering in his chest, hands firm on {{user}}'s waist.