My guilty ship. ;;

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the show or any of the characters. And if you didn't know that, you have no business reading this thing anyway, so quit complaining.

The lights of the city rivaled the stars in their brilliance. But the two figures atop a lonely mountain were not there to appreciate the view.

"It's not fair! She should have gone to the prom with me!"

John Wink glanced at his best friend. Either the alcohol stolen from his parents was starting to take effect, or Timothy Fibb was more upset than he had realized. Timothy had hoped to go to the school prom with the girl they both still thought of as Lasso Lass, but his premature baldness had ended that relationship before it began. So prom night found the pair looking down on the city, imbibing in stolen beer.

"There is no reason to be so distraught, Timothy. She is clearly not worth it."

Timothy sniffled and wiped his eyes. "I guess you're right, John," he answered miserably, tipping the bottle for another drink.

Silence fell, but John watched his friend out of the corner of his eye. He did not like seeing Timothy so upset. Particularly over a girl. In fact, the very thought of his closest friend liking a girl was… unpleasant.

John quickly squelched the emotion. After all, boys were not supposed to have such feelings. Not for other boys. He drained the liquid from his own bottle and reached for another.

"If only I still had my hair…" Timothy rubbed his scalp dejectedly.

"If she truly cared for you, it would not matter if you had hair or not." Perhaps it was the third beer making John so uncharacteristically caustic. The alternative—that he simply did not want to hear his friend lament about a girl— did not bear consideration.

They had known each other since childhood. Had even fought adults together with Lasso Lass. They grew up together, were in all the same classes, and were voted Most Joined-At-The-Hip every year. But in the past few years, John had begun seeing Timothy in a different way. A way that was certainly not appropriate. And so he ignored it, as he did most everything that he did not wish to think about.

Perhaps this was a bad idea, he thought. His mind was getting fuzzy, which would surely lead to actions he would later regret.

The hand on his shoulder startled John, who looked sharply at Timothy. Though they spent the better portion of every day together, physical contact was nearly nonexistent between them.

Timothy smiled wanly, his eyes glazed from the drinks. "At least I always have you, John," he said lightly.

John nodded slowly. "Yes, Timothy. You always have me." John did not know what possessed him to do what he did next. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps the infrequent touch of Timothy's hand. Perhaps he was simply tired of keeping things tamped down inside. Whatever the catalyst, John leaned over and pressed his lips against Timothy's.

The contact lasted only a second—if that—but John noted as he pulled away that Timothy looked shocked. As well he should be, John thought bitterly. "My sincerest apologies," he said casually, gulping down another mouthful of beer.

Neither spoke for several minutes again, but this stillness was not the comfortable variety they often shared. A most awkward silence, John reflected, but he did not speak. Breaking the silence could prove worse than these soundless echoes were.

It was Timothy who finally broke the silence. "Perhaps it is time we were returning." John said nothing, but merely stood, leaving the empty bottles where they lay, and walked back to his car. Timothy followed.

The car doors slammed, John in the driver's side, Timothy on the passenger's. "Are you sober enough to drive, John?" asked Timothy, as if nothing had happened.

John merely shook his head. His momentary aberration should have informed them both of his intoxication levels.

And so they sat, stiff and motionless. They often went on excursions or impromptu road trips, so would not be missed by staying until one of them could drive. It would not be the first night they spent in each other's company. Though it might, as John feared, be the last.

Several tense minutes later, Timothy leaned over and rested his head on John's shoulder. The remaining tuffs of hair brushed John's cheek, making his heart pause, then pound in a most peculiar—but not unpleasant—manner.

"Good night, Mr. Wink."

A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

"Pleasant dreams, Mr. Fibb."