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The crowd of rowdy uni students huddled around the pub makes Phil feel slightly uneasy. He crosses to the other pavement just to give them a wide berth, but he can’t stop himself from looking over. They’re all of them huddling in just their shirts, their breath visible puffs of white in the cool night air. He feels suddenly painfully older than them as he buries his hands deeper in his pockets, weirdly nostalgic for the beginning of his York days before he came back here, two degrees richer but with no clue about what comes next.
There’s an uptick in noise level and then one of the group breaks out, jogging across the street towards him. Phil attempts to avoid all eye contact and keep walking, not at all sure he wants to know what this strange lad is up to.
“Hey, mate, spare a light?” the guy says. He stops a couple of feet from Phil and holds out an unlit cigarette. He’s tall, wearing black jeans and a thin-looking white t-shirt with a gaping wide neckline that reveals sharp collarbones, a wash of dark emo fringe falling over his face. Phil stares.
“I wish I smoked,” he blurts, then feels his eyes widen in horror.
The guy has the good grace to laugh. “I wish you did too!”
“Oi, Howell! Clock’s ticking!” One of his friends calls from across the street.
The guy, Howell, turns and flips him the bird. His friends hoot and laugh. But he doesn’t move away from Phil. Instead he turns back to him and gives him a shy but evaluating look that makes Phil’s palms just a little sweaty.
“There’s a stupid bet on,” he says and waggles the cigarette. Then: “I only smoke when I’ve had a few.”
“I tried a menthol one once and it made me really sick,” Phil says. He has no idea why he’s stood here talking to a complete stranger, but he can’t seem to start walking again.
Howell is still staring at him. He looks as if he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how. Their gazes catch. “Look, don’t. Don’t be offended but there’s like another two items on the list of challenges.”
Phil feels himself growing nervous. He can’t help looking behind Howell. His friends are definitely keeping an eye on them but pretending not to. “Alright...”
“Gotta kiss someone too,” Howell mumbles and then looks away. There’s a flush spreading over the lower part of his jaw. He has a couple of freckles there. Phil’s mouth feels dry. “I don’t suppose—“
“Alright,” Phil says, quickly this time.
Howell looks back at him. “Yeah?”
Phil nods mutely. He feels a little crazy, but this stranger is hot and Phil can respect a good challenge.
Howell closes the distance between them. He isn’t pushy or rushed about it, pausing with his face a single inch from Phil’s.
It’s Phil who tips his head, presses their lips together. Howell’s lips are chapped and cool, but they’re soft as they briefly press against Phil’s. He feels a tingle rush all the way through him, a feeling like when you jump from too high and land with a jolt.
There’s a sudden cacophony of hooting and howling from across the street, but Howell seems to ignore it. He steps in even closer and kisses Phil again, and then again, short polite brushes that can’t take more than a second each but that Phil is already growing impatient with. He doesn’t mean to take this stranger by the back of the neck and gently deepen the kiss, but it is nonetheless what he does. Howell makes a sound of surprise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t pull away, licks softly at Phil’s tongue, sending shivers down his spine. He tastes like he’s already had a smoke tonight, the bitterness of cigarettes and beer, and Phil finds himself wanting to know what he tastes like when he hasn’t been out on the town.
Howell pulls back and Phil loosens his hold on him. “You taste like strawberries,” he mumbles, eyelids half covering dark brown eyes.
“Haribo,” Phil says, equally dazed.
“What?” Howell says and blinks.
Phil digs the bag out his pocket and holds it up. “Haribo strawberries. Want one?” He asks stupidly.
Howell laughs, a screechy genuine sound that Phil likes instantly. “Who are you? Who carries around Haribo in their coat pockets?”
“Phil Lester,” Phil says and then shrugs because that might have just been a rhetorical question.
Howell smiles at him. It looks soft and kind and he has a dimple and Phil has no idea what is happening to him.
“I’m Dan,” Howell says.
“Nice to meet you, Dan,” Phil says.
Dan laughs again, as if joy is being punched out of him. It makes Phil laugh, too.
“What other challenges did you get?”