Weeds (George Daniel/Matty Healy)

1: "i can see it in your eyes, george"

It was simply something to keep him warm on a cold morning. To shine light through the dreary blue grey skies. To force hope through the blanket of ashen nothingness that clung to the town like a thick black fog.

George knew it ought to have meant something more, but it was just enough - more content than contempt. Warm lips, shaky breaths, in the cold. Bodies pressed close together, in more than just an attempt to keep to the shadows of the churchyard.

"You taste like..." He drew away, long arms encircling his shoulders - tight, as if he might never let George go. Despite every ounce of sense in his body, George would have quite liked that.

The boy looked up at him from behind long, dark eyelashes, tawny brown hair blowing out with the Sunday morning breeze. But he didn't look beautiful. George didn't go after beautiful boys; they were simply unobtainable. Beautiful boys were strictly heterosexual, and out of his league, and lived in nice big houses, and were nice to their mothers, and knew more than just how to light up a joint. George had left all the beautiful boys behind.

He was, however, decently pretty. And George was content to be resigned to kissing pretty boys in churchyards over an ounce; it was as much to do with keeping him warm in the cold spring weather, as it was with simply making a statement.

"Like... honey..." It took him a moment, but the second half of his sentence did finally come, as he blinked erratically viridescent eyes up towards George: desperate and yearning for more.

George forced himself to subdue a snort; he knew all too well the kind of bullshit half way pretty boys would spew when they had half a mind about getting somewhere. Still, he wasn't quite clever enough as to not play along. He didn't care for the reality of the situation, for the meaning behind falsified feelings; he cared instead for something to pass the time, warm hands to hold, a heart to beat against his own.

"You taste like fags." George didn't quite have it within him to return the same sappy rhetoric, and instead, crashed their lips back together, pinning bony shoulders back to the church wall.

"Very funny." He pulled away, leaving George to tug pitifully at his bottom lip: desperate to avoid his gaze, to avoid further conversation. "Come on, George."

"What?" He relented in the end, pulling away to stare great, ashen holes in such a fervent resolve. "Come on, Cam..." He drew out a taunting remark, lighting the most feeble fire in his eyes.

"I don't care whether you think you're god himself, I'm not getting off with you behind a church." He held his arms firmly across his chest, leaving George to skulk off towards the railing that surrounded the churchyard, running his fingers over the black metal spikes with an undeserved resentment.

George stare down at the ground: grass telling no tales of spring, or at least, the approaching summer, considering the placid half-grey it grew. It was as if it just didn't quite have the heart to grow - to accept change with maturity and adapt to it, instead of making a pastime out of poorly justified self-destruction. At least, George wasn't alone in that.

It was all of forty six seconds before Cam followed him. George counted each and every one.

"It's not you." He assured him, voice just as dull and ordinary as the world around them. "It's the church, and the... being in public. We can go back to-"

"No." George told him, turning to press his back against the railings, staring up at Cam, as if daring him to kiss him again. The prospect amused George: pushing people to see how far they might go.

It was no less than ten seconds before they kissed once more. George almost laughed, but settled for smiling up against his lips instead. As Cam smiled back, George let him think that it was for the same reason, that they were on the same page, that this was something, and not just anything, not just a way to spend a morning or an afternoon.. It was all too easy.