Closet Feelings (formerly Closet Talk)

Author's notes:
First story ever written in English, so when you spot mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me. Otherwise you are going to see me making the same stupid mistakes again and again.
This is the result of a parody I'm currently writing (featuring a desperate main cast, rabid groupies and the excessive use of stereotypes), so it will be random. And dark, but I have no idea how that happened.
The characters will seemingly act strange, but as the story progresses, everything will be explained.

Intro: When in Doubt, Faint.

As an afterthought, maybe it wasn't his best idea to fall for him. Sure, the guy was good-looking and not the worst person one could ask for company when sitting in an stuffed broom closet... as long as he kept his mouth shut and the invading of your personal space to an absolute minimum.

Which, at this very moment, unfortunately isn't the case.

„...meaning, if you don't move your scrawny ass to your side, I'm going to shove that dust mop..."

Not to mention the scent. A strangely appealing mixture of Gasoline, shampoo and a faint hint of what might be aftershave mingles with stale air and makes it harder to breathe – an appalling train of thought.

„Hey, moron, are you listening?"

„Yeah. 'M still here." The mist in his head is worse than he'd anticipated.

„Crap, you look pale. - Don't you dare to pass out on me, 'cause I won't drag your sorry remains outta here when Mrs. Mob opens this god-damn door, got it?"

„'s not ma fault, but 'm sorry anyway." It also is as hot as hell, an average cooktop and the inside of his father's car in midsummer combined.

„Yeah. Thanks for reminding me... if I see this stupid jackass before we suffocate, he'll be dead meat. Hey!"

The elbow nudging his ribs is a little too rough and will maybe leave a mark, but then again, his fellow prisoner is not exactly a delicate flower.

„I said you shouldn't pass out. Pussy." He isn't the nicest fellow on earth, either, but that is already a given since first grade. The physical contact is bearable, but the air makes it worse. Furthermore, there's a stinging pain tormenting his brain. Not pleasant.

„Don't plan to..."

„That's what she said.", is the muttered response next to him, but he doesn't care anymore. The thought of a nice afternoon nap sounds surprisingly appealing, and this leather-clad shoulder would make the most convenient pillow.

„What the... hey!"

But he is already out like a light.

Next: Part 1 - Of Debatable Sanity