Chas had never been so worn out in his life.

John was like a drill sergeant, making sure Chas was at the driving range every morning for an hour, then eighteen holes of golf. Sometimes another nine holes if Chas didn't find his stride soon enough. And now that it was the day before the tournament qualifier, John was even more unbearable.

"John, this is ridiculous. I've played this hole seven times. It's just not working today," Chas said, taking off his hat long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

"One more time. One over par won't cut it."

"Well, what if I don't want to 'cut it'? I never even wanted to be in this tournament qualifier in the first place!"

John groaned and rolled his eyes. "Why wouldn't you, kid? You have the talent, the opportunity, so what's the problem here?"

"I don't want to compete!"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I'll lose, John!"

There was a long silence, during which Chas teed up his shot, pulled back, and killed the ball with a slam from the driver. The ball went dead-straight down the fairway, hit the embankment below the green, and bounced up onto it.

"There's your damn shot. I'm done."

Chas dropped the club and began to walk away, and John did a double take between him and the shot before stumbling after him.

"Wait! Chas, wait!" He ordered, but Chas didn't stop.

"You think I don't know what you're up to, John?" He asked harshly. "This is all about me embarrassing Balthazar on his own turf, isn't it? Do you realize just how good of a golfer he is?"

"That's not the only thing, Chas, and you-"

"He could be in the PGA if he wanted to. That's how good he is, and you want me to jump in this and embarrass myself? It's just a hobby, John!"

"That was not 'just a hobby' kind of shot!" John yelled, grabbing Chas by the shoulder and spinning the teen around to face the drive he'd just made.

Chas sighed in frustration. "Where'd it go, anyway?"

"Ten feet from the hole."

Chas snorted and shook his head. "You must be pretty damn happy then. See ya."

Chas turned and started walking again, and John's fists tightened.

"Don't you fuckin' walk away from me, Chas!"

Chas didn't stop walking.


When Chas went to John's apartment that night, the man was on his third glass of scotch.

Chas closed the door and stepped over to the table, and John didn't even speak as he stood up, got another glass, poured scotch in it, sat down, and slid the glass over to Chas.

"Here. Have a drink, kid."

"I'm underage…"

"Like you care."

Chas shrugged and dropped his golf bag by the door, sitting down at the table and taking a swig of the scotch. It wasn't like he'd never drank the stuff before- just when no one was around to catch him.

"Listen, John, I'm sorry about the way I acted today…"

"Whatever."

"Hey, I'm apologizing here. The least you could do is let me finish."

"Right, right. Go ahead," John muttered, a drunken slur to his voice.

"Anyway…I was thinkin' maybe I could give this tournament thing a shot. I mean, if I make it in the top ten in the qualifier, there's a bit of a cash prize, and…I'm kinda three weeks behind on rent…"

There was a long silence at the table before John nodded slowly. "Okay, Chas."

"Okay? That's all you've got to say?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, that's about it."

Chas almost laughed, taking another long drink from his glass and reaching to refill it. John didn't object.

In fact, John didn't object the next four refills.

Chas wasn't sure how it happened, who started it, or exactly how many glasses of hard liquor it took to get there- but the next clear memory was of him pressed back against his golf bag, the clubs painfully pressing into his back as John's hands roughly pulled his shirt up and off. John's lips were all over his, and all over his neck, along the line of his collarbone, and soon enough the golf bag fell over, taking them to the ground with it.

Somehow in their drunken stupor they made it to the bedroom…and that's where Chas's memory went dark and animalistic urge for sensation took over.


Chas woke up to the strange feeling that he'd fallen asleep on something other than his meager, lumpy mattress.

He also woke up to the strange sensation of his bed breathing.

He opened his eyes, and was met with not only a pounding, constant pain- but the fact that his limbs were tangled with those of John Constantine. And neither were wearing more than the bedsheets.

"Fuck!"

He jerked away, tangling in the sheets and falling off the bed. John woke with a start, looking around and rubbing his eyes. "Whassat?"

Chas sat on the floor for a few moments, stunned. What had happened last night? First the apology, the drinking, the make out session…

Wait. Make out session? With JOHN?

"Chas, you okay?" John asked, leaning over the side of the bed, seeming completely used to this sort of morning situation.

"Okay? Okay? Why the hell would I be okay! What the hell happened, John?"

John shrugged, grabbing for his cigarettes on the bedside table. "Drunken fuck. It happens."

Chas groaned and stood up, met with a sharp, lancing pain that he far from expected.

"Holy Christ, what the fuck did you do, run a traffic cone up my ass!"

John smiled smugly. "Thank you."

Chas happened, at that moment, to catch a glance of the clock.

"Oh, shit, the tournament!"

John looked sleepily perplexed. "What about it?"

"My tee-off time is in twenty fuckin' minutes, John!"

"Oh," John started, lighting up a cigarette. "That's not a good thing."

Chas was already pulling on his clothes (although he wasn't having much luck in finding where his jeans had been thrown), and he gave John an incredulous look.

"You're lucky I'm late, John, or I'd kill you right about now."

I'm lucky I'm late, or I'd be thinking far too much about what happened last night. Because drunken fuck sure as hell doesn't cover it.