Once upon a time, there were two young boys who decided together to become men. What turns a boy to a man? One's first taste of alcohol, of course. And so it was that Clyde found himself hiding in a bush with a six-pack of Coors Light, waiting for Token's signal.

"Jesus Christ," he mumbled aloud. He checked his phone again hopefully, but there were no new messages, and five more minutes had passed. He was getting cold.

Not cold feet, he clarified to no one. Just cold…body. Because this was going to be awesome. He was not going to get caught hiding in this bush, which was really more of a fancily trimmed hedge. He was not going to get glared at by Token's extremely intimidating father, who already seemed to rather hate Clyde. He was not going to be banished from Token's life forever for corruption via cheap beer. And he was not going to drop said case of cheap beer, he promised himself as he spun around wildly to avoid a bee flying by. Hugging his contraband to his chest, he again accessed his phone and peckered out a text with one thumb:

Bees come out at night?

He pressed send, hoping that Token would get the hint that he would like some contact, please.

A cool breeze ruffled his hair and he squinted toward the setting sun. "I want to go inside," he sang to himself. Still hugging the beer, he squatted down and began kicking his legs out in some awkward interpretation of a Russian kick-step dance. "And I'd like to pee, please!" he sang, ending in a fairly satisfactory high note. "Loo loo loo!" he continued in falsetto.

"Dude!"

Clyde froze with his right leg still kicked outwards. Balancing like a short, chubby flamingo, he lifted his chin to look all the way up to Token's window. "Are you ready?" he asked, aiming for a casual yet covert whisper but delivering the hoarse sputter of a 60-year-old pack-a-day smoker. He choked on his own voice and promptly fell on his butt. "Augh!" he couldn't help crying in surprise.

Above, Token was rolling his eyes as far back into his head as they'd ever gone. "Embarrassing" would be the first word he'd use to describe his best friend, if asked. He'd actually considered the hypothetical event of being asked, and after much internal debate, "embarrassing" was indeed the winner. "Special" had come in second place, valued for its ambiguity. Were the imaginary interviewer to ask what Token meant by "special," certain facial expressions and intonation would bring about laughter at Clyde's expense. Alternately, in case said interviewer was someone who could be trusted with privileged information, Token could simply say it the way it was truly intended: with reverence.

But "embarrassing" was ever-so-slightly more accurate, Token had to admit. And he tried not to cringe as he watched his friend heave himself to his feet through a series of awkward leg movements and wobbles to gain momentum. While it was all very uncomfortable to watch, though, he couldn't help smiling affectionately.

Finally, Clyde managed to stand up again. That's okay, he encouraged himself, Token probably wasn't watching. He turned around and looked up. Okay, Clyde, looks like he maybe was watching. But you probably didn't look that stupid. In fact, Token is probably super impressed with your upper body strength. "I thought you were going to text me!" he whined.

"Well, I didn't."

Clyde scowled. "I know you didn't."

"Great job on the critical thinking, then. Are you ready?"

Despite being slightly cross at the insinuation that his comment had been dumb, Clyde grinned. "Yeah," he whisper-yelled, raising the case above his head like he was presenting baby Simba to Pride Rock.

"Oh my God," said Token, closing his eyes. He was sure that Clyde must have grown up in a house without mirrors, despite seeing various mirrors that adorned the Donovan home many times on his frequent visits there. Clyde's complete lack of awareness of how he looked at any given time was superhuman. Whether this quality should be attributed to idiocy or confidence, he had not quite decided. Hopefully this question wouldn't come up in the hypothetical interview about his feelings for Clyde. Rescuing himself from the second-hand embarrassment, he moved away from his window on the second floor to grab the extremely high-tech device he'd spent the whole afternoon rigging up. "Just take this," he called down, releasing the length of rope.

Clyde stared blankly at the brown cord that fell before him, the excess length pooling at his feet. He lowered the loot and looked up again to see Token's end of the device. It appeared as though the rope was fastened to a baseball bat, which Token held suspended out of the window. "What is this, twine?" he asked, reaching out to touch it.

"Does it look like fucking twine?" he received in response.

"No."

"Are you seeing how that question could be considered stupid, then?"

Now sufficiently irritated, Clyde glowered up at his friend. "I forgot the word for 'rope,'" he said defensively.

"Well, it's 'rope!' Hurry up and tie it on!"

Clyde obliged, if somewhat grouchily. Sinking back down to his knees, he pulled the rope through and around the handle of the six-pack, looping it around the bottom a couple of times for added security. Once satisfied with his killer triple-knot, he looked up again and gave Token two enthusiastic thumbs up. "Got it!" he said.

Token pulled the bat up experimentally, and the case of beer seemed to remain decently upright as it rose off the ground. "Okay," he granted. "Go knock on the door."

"Now?"

"Now!"

Clyde stood again, this time using his hands to help himself up. He watched for a moment as Token began reeling in the loot. Satisfied that his friend had this part covered, he brushed the dirt from the knees of his jeans and picked a leaf from the hedge out of his hair. Time for phase two.

He scampered through the side garden as James Bond would have done, had James Bond ever pulled off anything as sweet as this when he was a high school sophomore. "Da-na-na!" he began to sing again, failing to realize that James Bond was not a character in the Mission: Impossible films. He'd never seen them, to be honest. He hated movies with suspense. Or conflict. Or characters who didn't like each other. Unless all of this was in the context of a romantic comedy, of course, which was Clyde's favourite genre. Token never suggested going to the movies for this exact reason. Clyde refused to watch anything that couldn't somehow be classified as a romantic comedy.

Nevertheless, Clyde was feeling pretty Ocean's Eleven as he stopped abruptly to press himself flat against the side of the house. Was Ocean's Eleven a spy movie? It sounded like a spy movie. "Da-na-na!" he sang again, regardless.

He finally made it to the front of the house, where he jumped over the short bushes that lined the walkway for bonus spy cred. Climbing up the stone steps, he cleared his throat in preparation for greeting whichever of Token's parents should open the door. Not his dad, he hoped, knocking confidently. At least, he hoped his knock was confident. Who would take a man with a weak knock seriously, after all?

Token's dad opened the door. "Oh, hello, Clyde," he said snottily. Well, maybe not snottily, but Clyde perceived it as a snotty hello. Clyde was upwards of 90 percent confident that Token's dad hated him.

"Good evening, Mr. Black," Clyde answered graciously in his responsible, adult voice. He was not nervous and his palms were not sweating.

After a brief uncomfortable silence in which the two surveyed each other—Clyde trying his best to maintain his innocent face while Mr. Black did a good job at sticking with his dad face—Mr. Black asked, "I suppose you're here to see Token…?"

It was not intended as a snooty question, but Clyde decided to take it that way. A sense of defiance amped up his satisfaction in knowing what he and Token were up to. "Oh, sure, I suppose," he said maturely.

Mr. Black sighed and held the door open for Clyde to enter. "He's in his room," he informed Clyde.

Clyde grinned because he already knew this. "Thank you for letting me know!" he said casually, and broke into a weird half-trot, half-jog toward the stairs, which he darted up without a second thought.

When he knocked a super cool rhythm on Token's door, he announced himself before entering to prevent any potential mishaps with the beer fishing. "You pulled it up already?" he asked, impressed to see Token sitting on the floor with the case in front of him.

"Yeah, you took long enough," Token snarked back.

Clyde ignored the attitude and shut the door, bounding over to sit across from Token. He briefly inspected the case. "Well, you almost broke it, stupid," he remarked, feeling its cardboard handle, which looked dangerously close to having torn all the way off.

Token glared. "You didn't have to tie the rope through the flimsy-ass handle!" he pointed out. "Just tie it all around the bottom, dumbass."

"Oh, fuck you," said Clyde, for lack of a better response. He knew better than to argue when he knew Token had a point. The kid would be a great lawyer someday. "Just open one!"

At this, they both looked up and grinned. Here it was: the moment of truth. Perhaps the most important moment of their lives thus far. It was time to put some hair on their chests. Token produced a bottle opener in the way he always had whatever supplies they needed on hand, and he flicked the caps off of two glass bottles. "Cheers," he said, grinning at Clyde's over-excited expression. Simultaneously, they raised their bottles and took their first sips of a genuine libation.

It tasted like Essence of Sweaty Gym Socks to both of them, but neither conceded a grimace at the unpleasant flavour. Clyde didn't want to seem uncool to Token, especially after all this work. Token didn't want to disappoint Clyde by admitting he wasn't enjoying the taste. They guzzled their first ever beers like it was the nectar of the gods. Not that that sounded very good, either. Instead, Token pretended it was his favourite energy drink. Clyde pretended it was chocolate milk.

Neither had eaten much ahead of the time, because neither had anticipated being extreme lightweights, and neither had wanted the experience to go to waste by not finishing the whole pack. Consequently, after three beers each, the boys were sufficiently giggly and lightheaded. Clyde had a pleasant feeling in his tummy and his forehead felt warm. Token's whole body had relaxed to a level of ease and unconcern he hadn't recalled feeling since fifth grade. Burping unabashedly, they grinned at each other, completely satisfied with their results.

"I like beer," Clyde slurred happily. He watched Token nod and for the first time in a long time, his stomach didn't clench when thought about how pretty Token's skin looked. Encouraged, he let himself think about Token's pretty eyes, too. Yep, no sweaty palms. No urges to look away or tug at the hem of his shirt. I love Token, he thought suddenly.

Token was experiencing a fizzy static in his brain and enjoying the sensation. Clyde was smiling at him and his mind wasn't defensively churning out negative thoughts about him to prevent actual feelings. He felt cozy, not from the alcohol, he decided, but because Clyde was there. Clyde was adorable, he thought fondly. Not cute like girls could be cute, but cute in an unintentional way. Better than a girl. "I'm thinking about you," he said recklessly.

Clyde guffawed in his slightly idiotic way. "Ha ha, I'm thinking about you, too," he declared.

Token chuckled too and leaned back. "What are you thinking?"

"Uh…" Clyde tried to put together a summary of all the billions of things he'd suddenly realized he loved about Token, but in his present condition, he couldn't think of anything. "I like, want to kiss you," he thought. Well, no, oops, he'd said it out loud.

With a snort, Token's head lolled to the side. "Then why don't you do it?" he challenged.

It took a moment, during which he sat stupidly, staring at his friend, for Clyde's brain to register that permission had been granted. "Oh!" he said after the delay, and suddenly, he was lunging forward.

The unfortunate taste of beer was undeniable as their lips collided clumsily, Clyde's arms wrapped around Token's neck in a move that turned into a sort of pounce. Before either realized what was happening, they were crashing to the floor, with Clyde on top and Token's hands coming to a rest on the small of Clyde's back. Both forgave the taste again, because what was happening more than made up for it.

The kiss was actually several kisses, because several burp breaks were needed. Clyde missed Token's lips several times, and each time he pressed an accidental kiss to Token's jaw, his friend laughed heartily. Clyde was laughing, too, half the time. "Smooch!" he yelled intermittently, pleased to feel Token's body beneath him shaking with laughter. "Kiss me! I love you."

"I love you, I love you," Token was choking out when he could. He squeezed, pulling Clyde's body closer to him. "Don't move, I love you."

Eventually, they were both laughing too hard to continue, and Token managed to force Clyde to roll over so that they both lay on their sides, still clutching each other tightly. "I hate beer!" yelled Clyde. "It tastes like butt!"

"It tastes like armpit!" roared Token. Tears of mirth poured down their faces.

Clyde was hiccupping. "But if you drank it, I would still kiss you," he chortled. "I love you."

Token declared, "You can drink it every day, and I will always kiss you anyway. I love you."

"Jesus Christ," Clyde said, his eyes growing wide while he continued to chuckle. "I think I had a crush on you."

"I had a crush on you," Token said.

"Kiss me, then!"

Token obliged.

They would fall asleep within minutes, and upon reawakening, they would realize what had happened. And they would clear their throats, both afraid to ask if the other had been serious. But one would admit with bated breath that he had been completely serious. And the other would say, "Thank fucking God."

They would spend the summer at each other's houses, as had been expected, but typically without any other friends. And while nothing had really changed—one was still an absolute fucking idiot, and one was also an idiot, just a snarkier one—everything had changed, in a way.

But never again was there a beer caper.

AN: I think abrupt endings will be a recurring theme in this series. Anyway, this was inspired by a photo I saw on Reddit. Inspiration credit goes to anonymous creative ninth graders. Thanks, boys!

-Cpt. Essex Cole