A/N: I am highly sympathetic to Craig, most of the time. Well, not particularly when he's trying to have his cake and eat it too, but in this case, I thought I understood his confusion, and his fear. And so, this is from his point of view, and I like to think I've captured his character all right, both the tender, emotional part of it, and his massive ego. I really like Craig. He's complicated. He and John Paul wouldn't be like they are if he weren't. And this scene just tore me apart, and it was all Craig's doing. So here's to you, Craig. Oh, and I may follow this up with another chapter, with another part of the story from Craig's point of view. So if you like this, put it on alert.

It was making me sick. It was all I could do not to retch up my breakfast. There I sat, exam in front of me, the questions blurring before my eyes as I was slowly tortured by a plethora of emotions, none of which I could understand.

Spike was taking you away from me.

You were MY best mate, and he was taking you AWAY from me. How dare he? Who was he to jump into your life and take my place there? I was further confused when I realized that I thought he was taking my place. Spike was your boyfriend, same as Sarah was my girlfriend. My being jealous of Spike would be like your being jealous of Sarah – and I knew you were, or used to be anyway before you got together with Spike. Because you fancied me. But I couldn't be jealous like that because I didn't fancy you, did I? And now, you fancied HIM.

I can't explain how thinking this made me feel. I don't think I understood, myself. The closest I can come to explaining to you what I was feeling at that moment, is to say that is was horrible. My hand, stiffly poised over the desk, was clenched around the pencil, my breaths shallow, as I felt awful anger, mixed with the indefinable feeling I knew I felt for you, solidify into a hard ball in my chest and obstruct my breathing.

It HURT.

All I could think of, could see, was you kissing Spike, and it was tearing me apart, and I simply couldn't understand why, and it was so bloody painful..! Angrily, and desperate for an outlet, ANY outlet, I gouged "JP luvs Spike" into the desk with my pencil, and then scratched it out savagely, the way I wanted to scratch the meaning of those words away. The way I wanted to scratch Spike out of your life.

My hands were shaking now. Agonized, the paper forgotten, I tore out of the oppressive, suffocating classroom, my breaths heavy. I went into the loo and looked at myself in the mirror. I was shocked at what I saw. My face was sweaty and my eyes were bloodshot. I looked as though I was running a high fever, and though I felt as though that might explain the strange, indecipherable feelings coursing through my body, I knew that I wasn't ill. I splashed cold water on my face, to little effect. The moment I closed my eyes to rub water onto my lids, I saw disgusting images of you all over Spike, and the hard knot in my chest knocked against my ribcage. I visualized the pillock's hands on your face, stroking your cheekbone, your bright blue eyes gazing at him adoringly, and the pain in my chest grew, until it was a gaping, hollow void inside me, and I couldn't breathe, and I wanted to see you. I HAD to see you. Without Spike. Alone. Just you.

I'm not sure how I managed, stumblingly, to get to yours, but it was probably because your face was burnt into the backs of my eyelids, because there was no other thought on my mind, because all I wanted to do was see you, your kind, sympathetic, BEAUTIFUL face, and all I wanted to hear was reassurances from your wonderful lips, and all I wanted was YOU.

You have to understand. It wasn't just since the pillock arrived that I'd been feeling this way. He just brought all the feelings to a head, to that point where I simply HAD to deal with them.

You'd told me that you loved me. You were the best mate I ever had, and you were in LOVE with me. Even though, at the beginning, I was shocked, uncomfortable, disgusted – I had soon begun to relish the idea that you were in love with me. Some secret part of my mind was terribly, terribly flattered that you fancied me, that you thought I was worth your feelings. I relished your eyes on me, when you thought I didn't know that you were watching. I felt your gaze on my lips as I talked, on my hands and my back and my eyes and my shoulders and my hair. You have no idea how it exhilarated it made me feel, being admired by you, even more exhilarated than I felt when Sarah told me how fit she thought I was, which she did, often.

And now, you looked at that pillock, Spike, the way you used to look at me. I knew it wasn't fair to begrudge you your chance at what I thought I had with Sarah, but it was driving me bonkers. You used to fancy ME! And, much as I feared admitting it to myself, I loved the attention. I loved YOUR attention. I WANTED your attention. I had to see you. The knot in my chest was throbbing painfully, my breathing shallow, as I thumped on your front door. I had to see you. I banged on the door again. You opened it.

And there you were, in front of me, your wonderful eyes surprised, your lips parted, your hair mussed. I gritted my teeth at the thought of Spike's hands in it. I asked if I could come in. You let me, confused and lovely, a flush on your skin. I couldn't look at you. You were too beautiful. I didn't understand it. I didn't WANT to understand it. I wanted a drink. I wanted to calm myself.

I asked if I could have a drink, and you replied, and I averted my eyes. I couldn't watch your lips move, it was too much, you'd been kissing the pillock with them, his big, ugly gob had been plastered all over your pink, plump lips, and a fire burned in the pit of my stomach, and the knot in my chest was growing and throbbing, and there were tears in my eyes, and my breath was hitching, and I couldn't understand what was happening to me.

Quickly downing the sherry you offered me, I asked you about Spike. I couldn't keep my hatred of him from my voice, my face, as words burst forth from my mouth, the hollow in my chest burning my insides as you told me you'd moved on. And I couldn't stem my hot, agonized tears.

And you said: "Mates don't get jealous of BOYFRIENDS! Yeah, jealous!"

It was like a kick in the stomach, you knew, YOU KNEW. Incoherently, I tried to deny it, but your calling in forth made it all the more real, and I felt worse, because I knew that I was angry and hurt because you'd said that you loved me and I'd taken it for granted, and I couldn't love you back because I wasn't gay, but I couldn't ask you not to move on if I couldn't love you back, but if you did move on, it would tear me up from inside, and that meant that I was jealous. But how could I be jealous if I couldn't fancy you back in the first place? And how was it possible, if I wasn't gay, for me to look at you and instantly think to myself how beautiful you were, and admire the qualities of you expressive face and fit body?

Struggling to articulate, asking the most pressing question in my mind, I said: "You used to fancy me… when'd you stop?"

You looked incredulous, your eyes wide with astonishment. It was like looking into a very, very bright light, I couldn't look away, but it made my eyes hurt to look at you look at me like that. That wasn't how you looked at Spike.

"What?" You said, indignant, flabbergasted.

"When'd you get over me?" I barreled on, not able to stop what I'd started. You knew. What did I have to hide from you? You could see right through me. I couldn't help the slight tone of accusation in my voice as I went on: "How can you just make yourself stop loving someone?" although I was in no position to be accusing you of anything.

I gazed at your face, wishing I could look anywhere else, anywhere but at you, but I couldn't turn away, I wanted to know what you had to say and I wanted to watch you say it, and your face was vulnerable, agonized, flushed, lovely.

"I mean… you said you loved ME," I said, softly, pleadingly, the tears coursing down my face, my vision blurred. All I could see was your half open mouth, and I wanted to reach out and…

"I did,"

…touch your face, perhaps graze my fingers across your bottom lip, to kiss you, the way Spike had been, better, to step closer to you…

"I do."

My blood had turned to ice, there was a ringing in my ears, yours eyes had dropped and you were staring at the floor, brooding, embarrassed, and I nodded and made an effort to say something, to convey my relief, my ridiculous, overwhelming relief that you still loved me. As more tears found their way out of my puffed up eyes, I tried to make sure, I said: "Do or did –" but you wouldn't let me finish, you'd found your voice, and you yelled in exasperation: "Why're you doing this, Craig, eh? You're making fun of me, what? You're teasing me? What?" and I felt a wicked stab of satisfaction now, because you were getting as flustered as I was, and you were flustered because you loved me, and because I was having an effect on you, because I'd made you think of ME and not Spike. And when I thought of Spike, I thought again of the thing that made my stomach turn, the thing that had been preying on my mind, like the kisses, something I was afraid to imagine because I was afraid of how it would make me feel. Because I was afraid that, instead of disgust, like any other normal straight male, I would feel more jealousy, would want to be in the pillock's place, would want you to do to me the things you'd done to Spike, would want to do with you what you'd done with Spike.

"Have you two…"

"What?"

"You know…"

You nodded, murmuring a quiet "yeah" of acquiescence, and my heart crashed and splintered, and I thought how much easier it would be if I were gay, but I wasn't. I liked women, I had a girlfriend, and it was wrong of me to want you like that.

"Didn't it feel wrong?" I pleaded, begging you, but you said: "no."

Adorably, terrifyingly hesitant, you went on: "Felt… felt wonderful," in a quick rush of breath.

Gritting my teeth, I nodded, noticing the flush that was spread across your face, wanting to touch it, against all reason, to feel its warmth, to press my lips against it.

"Do you love him?" I asked squarely, watching your face, your expression, to make sure, still afraid of hearing what you had to say, but you replied softly: "Not as much as I love you," and looked up at me, into my eyes.

And at your open, burning, glowing, blue-eyed honesty, something inside me released and I broke into sobs, and I gave up, and my self-restraint was in shambles, all semblance of reason was in shambles, and I reached out to you, my hands shaking, touching your lean torso lightly as you leaned against the kitchen counter, looking timid, surprised, amazed, afraid. My hands touched your chest and I smoothed your T-shirt against your collarbone, my mind a blank, the only thought I had being you, your lovely, surprised, confused, beautiful face, your suppressed shudder as I touched you lovingly, your murmured denials that I could barely hear through my wracking sobs, all the agony I'd been going through manifest in one sobbed sentence: "I… I can't stop thinking about you…"

And you looked both hopeful and distraught, both frightened and elated, and though you continued to try to make me stop, to think this through, I knew, I felt, with a stab of excitement, that you couldn't resist me, Spike or no Spike, and I said the truest thing I'd said in a long time. I just stopped thinking about how wrong I thought it was and told you, longingly, desperately: "I want you…"

And in that second, I let myself go, and all the shackles I was bound in by my family, by society, by MYSELF, all fell away, and all I knew was that it was me and it was you, and I kissed you. And your restraint fell away too, went as though it had never been there. And you kissed me.

It was so wonderful, all so, so, wonderful, it scared me. I had never felt as I did in that moment, kissing you. Sarah was forgotten, everything was, because you were with me, and you were so lovely, and I wanted you so much.