Right Under Your Nose

Two scally lads killing time on the sofa. Smoke hanging in the air. One of them gets comfortable — lights up, stretches out, and casually plants his feet straight onto his mate’s lap. They’re warm. Soft. Smooth from being worn all day. The socks are damp, carrying that heavy, unmistakable smell that only comes from real feet that have been worked, sweated in, lived in. It’s meant to be a wind-up — but it hits harder than expected. The smell gets in his head. The feel of them resting there. The closeness. His focus slips, his breathing changes, and the joke stops being funny. Those feet — relaxed, confident, right under his nose — start driving him mad. No big moment. No words. Just one lad slowly losing it over another lad’s feet… and not doing a thing to stop it.