Mello extended his hand to pull Matt up onto the tabletop and Matt, in his drunken haze, accepted it with a smile and a hiccup...

Groaning, Matt turned over in bed and said something about the light and how it needed to fuck off. He was not in the mood for the early morning bullshit.

Knocking back shots was definitely more fun with friends—well, a friend—than alone at the bar, especially when one was using a fake I.D. and was actually, in fact, jailbait.

With a moan, Matt sat up and held his head, trying to get the pounding to fucking stop because it hurt like a bitch. He glanced back at his bedmate and sighed. "Damn it, Mels," he said to himself, "ya let me get blazed. Shit, we had sex, didn't we?"

Still tired, he stood up, stretched, pulled on a pair of boxers, and headed through the glitter-dusted room to get to the door to freedom—well, the door to the bedroom that promised a flight of stairs down to bring him to the kitchen. On his way down to get breakfast, he looked out the window and snorted at the fact that were pink, plastic lawn flamingos in his parents' pool. Mello would have a field day with this, if he ever decided to get the hell up.

Matt yawned, covering his mouth with his hand and sniffing it afterward; he cringed. "I smell like a fuckin' minibar," he said to no one in particular, making a face and pouring a glass of orange juice to help with the stench. Downing the glass, he noticed the deejay from the party the night before on his stomach in the yard, completely passed out. On his way out of the kitchen, he grabbed a package of Pop-Tarts and slid open the glass door to the backyard, stepping out onto the patio and munching on his breakfast.

His obligatory check of the state of the patio produced some rather... interesting findings. Not only were his neighbor's flamingos floating around in the pool—yes, his neighbor's. He'd laugh about it then return them later, not that the neighborhood necessarily missed them—but a handful of Barbie dolls had shown up in his barbeque. What the fuck did they do last night?

Reaching a hand up to rub his neck, he ran his fingers over something of questionable origin. "This a hickey or a bruise?" he thought out loud, fingering it some more before shrugging and heading back inside to check what his Facebook friends had posted about that crazy-ass party.

The last thing he'd been expecting were pictures from the party in question. And damn if they weren't incriminating. He was so fucked when his parents logged on to check his status. So, so fucked. It'd be nice if he could actually remember most of what happened, but it was all just a blacked-out blur to him; he was pretty sure that it fucking ruled, though.

"God," Mello groaned, coming down the stairs and rubbing his eyes. "The fuck happened last night, Matt? I think I blacked out around two in the morning."

"Well, I remember dancin' on the table," Matt replied, pouring a glass of milk for his best friend. "We knocked back a fuck of a lotta shots, too, and I'm damn sure that I kissed ya sometime last night. But I can't remember too much of it."

"Mello, we're gonna end up maxin' out the credit cards!" Matt warned, tipsy and unable to keep his balance.

"Don't worry, Mattie," Mello assured. "Nothing bad's gonna happen from us having a little fun!"

Mello rubbed his temples. "Ugh," he said, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. "I know we maxed my and your parents' credit cards, which got us kicked out of the bar. What'd we do after that?"

Flipping the bouncer the finger, Matt said, "Well, fuck ya, too!" and dragged Mello out of the bar until the blond could stand on his own two feet and the two of them headed toward the park a block and a half away.

When they'd finally made it to the park, Matt began stripping down to nothing and running around like an idiot, trying to prompt Mello to do the same and Mello, far past all rational thought, obliged and joined in the streaking. Upon the discovery of a small pond in the park, streaking quickly turned to past-midnight skinny dipping.

"We went streakin' in the park," Matt answered, running his hand through his hair. "Then it morphed into skinny dippin', which was actually damn fun. I feel like I'm missin' somethin', though..."

The last thing Mello wanted for Matt, who found purchase on his hips with one foot on either side of his torso, was for him to feel uncomfortable. And that pained look on the redhead's face was indication enough that it was not going to be smooth sailing. "Matt," he murmured, propping himself up on his elbows to sit up a bit.

Matt cracked an eyelid and found himself being pulled into the most delicious, wet, open-mouthed kiss he'd ever experienced in his years of being a teenage delinquent and just melted, forgetting the pain and moving his hands from Mello's stomach to wrap his arms around his neck. Between Mello's fingers kneading his thighs and the other set of hands—he couldn't quite remember whose, though—ghosting across his bare back, he couldn't help but shiver and moan shakily.

Flushed red in a rare show of embarrassment, Mello coughed and said, "I'm, uh, pretty positive there was sex. Like... ménage à trois sex. Threesome. It was pretty hot, too. You're, um, damn good. You been with guys before?"

"No," Matt replied, equally as red as Mello, if not more. "I never even went all the way with chicks, either; just, like, touchin'. Nothin' more."

An awkward silence, in which dozens of gay babies had been born, blanketed the kitchen.

"Well," Mello said suddenly, "since we've at least connected the dots somewhat, I guess the real question now is what the fuck do we tell our parents? I don't think mine would like it much if I just said, 'Hey, sorry I didn't do my chores on Friday night; I was too busy getting wasted and having sex.' That wouldn't go over well."

Matt snorted. "Ya think that's bad? Look at the mess I have to clean up! And on a Saturday! The fuckin' chandelier is on the fuckin' floor! And the city prob'ly towed my car! I'm fuckin' dead!"

Before Mello could respond, his cell phone beeped from its location on the kitchen counter and he grabbed it, checking the text that he'd just received. "Well, looks like there's a warrant out for my arrest. Misa just texted me the details. And my favorite shirt is ripped, thanks to over-eager you and your hormones."

"I need a fuckin' ginger ale," Matt grunted, opening the fridge and sifting through it. "Damn, that was such an epic fail."

"No kidding."

"Ya know what?" Matt said, grabbing a ginger ale and popping the tab of the can to open it. "Let's just agree to never fuck up like that again. From now on, Fridays are gonna be tame, low-key chill times with just us. No parties, no alcohol, no..." he blushed, " 'Kay?"

Mello nodded, stealing Matt's can and taking a sip. "Deal."

. . .

The next Saturday morning Matt awoke with his head throbbing and a blond, Mello-shaped lump underneath the covers next to him; from his own state of undress, Matt deduced that Mello was probably in the same boat and that they'd somehow ended up in the sack with each other again. Swearing up a storm, he pulled on the nearest pair of pants—Mello's leather tight-pants, underwear be damned—and paced around the room until Mello woke up.

"We did it again, didn't we?" he asked groggily, sheet sliding down his chest to bunch up at his waist as he sat up and ran a hand through his mussed hair.

"Yup," Matt replied. "Again. This is the second week in a row. We really gotta stick to our promises."

Mello held a hand up. "I swear, next week we will not wake up in the same bed and feel awkward about it again. Scout's honor."

A thin auburn eyebrow cocked. "Ya never were a Boy Scout, Mels."

"Whatever. You get the point."

. . .

"We gotta stop meetin' like this," Matt said quietly, head resting on Mello's shoulder as Mello wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer. "It's becomin' routine."

And Matt was totally fine with leaving the conversation at that, but then Mello had to go and say, "You sound like you're okay with it, though," and all of Matt's thoughts suddenly turned irrational.

(Plus he was horny. Damn you, hormones.)

"Ya know what?" he said, pushing himself up with one arm to hover over Mello. "Maybe I am."

Then Mello smirked that smirk, and Matt just couldn't hold himself back anymore. Swiftly and firmly, Matt leaned down and kissed that damn smirk right off his face, threading his fingers through sweat-dampened blond hair and sucking on his friend's—boyfriend's? lover's? fuck buddy's? friend-with-benefits'? After screwing each other senseless not once, not twice, but three times, were they really still just friends?—bottom lip with determination.

Matt prided himself in keeping a clear head through all of his previous 'relationship' kisses, but the moment that Mello gripped his chin with his thumb and forefinger to bring his face up and slip some tongue into the kiss, Matt's mind went pleasantly blank—sans one thought.

If this was the result of crazy Friday nights, then next week, he'd certainly be doing it all again.