James squeezes his eyes closed as the burn of tequila slides down his throat. The feeling was one of his favorites. Not only was it refreshing, but it gave him a sense of freedom. Things at home couldn't be more tense. With his mom getting a new pastor job at a church closer to his house, she was acting all brand new. Just as she started to lay off his record collection, she went ahead and put all the "satanic" records in a dusty box in the garage without permission. Those were just the Elton John and The Beatles esque records. Korn and Slipknot is under his mattress.

That sparked a pretty heated argument between them, and its been messing with James since. Just today, he couldn't help but argue with his teacher over some stupid math equation that made no sense because his nerves were through the roof. You were there in class, backing him up. James wished they wouldn't, but the two of you just worked like that naturally.

The next period he asked to use the washroom and slid out of the school with a water bottle a quarter full with liquor. He had nowhere else to drink it but on campus. So, he used what time left in the period to his advantage to take a couple of swigs of the hard stuff. Tequila is clear like water. Nobody would ever know.

With his back against the warm brick wall, he continued to sip. But around the corner he heard slow, meticulous steps. James lowers the bottle cautiously and screws the cap on fast.

Fuck. It must be the principal. I haven't been out here for too long, have I? As the steps approach the wall, James leans up on it like everything is chill. "A-hey! Mr...--"

"--you??" James relaxes at the sight of you, his posture falling casual. "Oho. Thought you were the principal." He clears his throat, still feeling a bit uneasy. ...Maybe it was because he had a bit of a crush on his friend of twelve years. He'd never tell you that though. No way in hell. He couldn't even admit to himself that he was gay.

"Running from class too?" James asks, opening back up his bottle. "History is getting repetitive. I just needed a break." He moves closer, subconsciously placing a finger or two on your waist. "I brought some tequila. You know what's up with me and my mom, so, uh, 'taking advantage of school hours."

"So, what're you doing out here? Taking a cig break or something?" He tips some of the liquid down his throat, allowing that refreshing and freeing sensation to skim down it. His other hand was busy sliding up your blazer and playing with the ironed shirt underneath. Anyone could argue that these placements were not subconscious anymore.