A/N: First three stories, publishing them all in one go. Be warned, I've got a thing for Will. I have a tattoo, and a thing for Will. So you won't always get SaintJesus.

Johnny's a touchy drunk. That's not to say he's a feisty drunk or a slutty drunk.

He's just a touchy drunk.

So, it's normal that he's reaching for the lid of Tunny's hat after two beers. What's not normal is that I'm still sober enough to be pissed off about this. I'd been ranting about the tax on cigarettes or some bullshit and hadn't opened my own can yet.

Usually, by the time Johnny gets touchy, I'm as tipsy as he is and I think it's hilarious, regardless of who he's touching. Tunny's not even paying attention when Johnny leans against him and starts laughing his ass off over managing to get the hat off of Tunny's head.

But I'm watching, and starting to figure that this weird jealousy has to do with Johnny being "the" best friend.

Odd numbered groups usually run across the awkward realization that proves who the favorite is. What I'm trying to say is that, if you ask Tunny or I who our best friend is, we'd both answer Johnny. And when you don't know who your best friend's best friend is, it's a bit of a competition.

So I like to think that this is why I hold up a pack of cigarettes and offer them to Johnny, who sits up and tilts my way now. Tunny's not drunk enough to think my offer is normal and he shoots me a look that's somewhere between confused and repulsed.

A few minutes later, when I've got a hand in Johnny's hair and I'm thinking that he smells like a forest fire between the cigarette smoke and pine-scented cologne, I can tell Tunny is still confused. And by the time I mumble some joke quiet enough that only Johnny can hear it, Tunny looks suspicious.

Which makes me suspicious, because I'm still sober and I know that friends don't usually try to be the favorite. And they sure as hell shouldn't get a rush just because you look up at them and smile before you start laughing.

When Tunny looks back at the table, I know he's counting the empty cans and thinking that, if any, I've had one beer.

So I sit up quickly and reach for the remote without looking at Johnny, who flails a bit from being knocked off balance and ends up leaning back against Tunny.

And then I start bitching about Jerry Springer, so that I can pretend they're both only looking at me like I'm crazy because I harbor such an intense hatred for that show.