"Oi! Caffrey!"

Michael turned slowly around to face the rough, broken voice. "What d'you want?"

Jamie Steeple smiled rather nastily and slugged Michael on the shoulder. It might have been almost chummy, had his expression been different. "Where's your mate?"

"Billy? He's gone off to school." Michael shrugged, hoping to hide the quaver in his voice.

"Yeah, that's what I heard." Jamie closed the distance between his face and Michael's, so close that Michael could feel the heat of his breathing and observe that the older boy had neglected to brush his teeth. "You know what else I heard? I heard it's not some ordinary school. I heard it's a dancing school."

Michael drew himself up, trying to make his height seem more formidable. "Yeah, that's right, innit?"

"Dancing's for girls, idiot," Jamie scoffed. "Blokes who do it are poofs."

"Billy's not a poof. Not all of 'em are, you know. It's a bloody good school, like. It's only for really brilliant dancers."

Jamie nodded slowly. "Maybe, but you know what else I heard?" Michael shook his head. "I heard you're a poof as well."

"That's a load of bullocks!" Michael insisted, praying he wasn't blushing.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Jamie roughly patted Michael's dark hair. "Be seeing you around, Caffrey."

"Yeah." Michael waited until Jamie had rounded the corner before setting off at a run, stopping only when he had put five blocks between himself and the other boy. There was a small tea shop just up the road. The lights inside burned so brightly and cheerfully, seeming to send out safety and warmth. Michael felt around in his jacket pocket; the 50p his mother had given him was still there. At that moment, he could think of nothing better than a cup of tea and something hot to tide him over until he got home.

Michael entered the shop and seated himself at a small table beside the window. The motherly waitress took his order and brought it around in record time.

"Here you are, love," she told him, setting down his grilled cheese and tomato sandwich with a flourish. "Does your mam know you're out here spoiling your supper?"

"Er... Yeah. She knows," Michael lied. It was technically true; she knew he was going out, but he had left more than an hour ago and wasn't planning on going back anytime soon.

He took a long, slow sip of tea. He hadn't been home much since Billy had left. His mam was always accusing him of moping, while his father maintained that it was for the best.

"It's good to have mates, but you and Billy were a bit too close. Not healthy that way, Michael. Boys... they shouldn't get like that."

"Why, Dad?" Michael had asked. "What d'you mean?"

"Well..." His father had begun to rub his neck, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. "People will start thinking things. They'll assume things that aren't true, like, that could be damaging to how they see you."

Poofs, he'd wanted to say. People will think me and Billy are poofs.

Billy wasn't; Billy would never be. He was tough, despite being a dancer, and he was smart enough to know that his masculinity would always be under scrutiny. He would work hard to keep people from thinking that.

But... what about him? Michael knew he was different. He knew he liked things that were different from what other boys liked. Other boys didn't try on their sister's dresses while she was out. Other boys didn't swap their Christmas presents for Barbie dolls. And they definitely didn't kiss their best mates after holiday parties when everyone else had cleared off.

"Oh God..." he murmured under his breath. "Please no..."

It couldn't be. He was different, but not really, was he? He went to boxing and played football after school. He couldn't be a poof! Poofs were nasty; they did dirty things. He'd only kissed Billy, and it hadn't been dirty at all! It had been... nice. Warm, and sweet, and safe.

God, he missed him. It wasn't fair for Billy to leave him behind like that. He hadn't done anything wrong, and yet here he was, stuck with sods like Jamie Steeple. It almost hurt not to see him every day. Letters were nice; Michael kept all of the ones Billy had sent in a box under his bed, covered in comic books and his boxing gloves. But they weren't the same. You couldn't hug a letter. He'd tried kissing one of them, but all he'd gotten was an ink stain on his lip and a fierce, aching need to throw himself across the bed and sob.

Michael put the 50p down beside his plate and stood up, pulling on his jacket and hat. His mam really would be worried if he didn't get home before eight.

The night air was harsh, so bitingly cold that his face ached and his hands began to go numb as soon as he stepped outside. He remembered Billy's cold hands, warming them for him, and then that slow, soft kiss...

"I'm a poof," whispered Michael to no one in particular. "Christ, I'm a Goddamn poof."

And Billy was...? Billy was strong and defiant and angry. Billy was afraid and sensitive and tender. Billy was a mystery.

Billy had kissed him.

As Michael said goodbye to his best mate something wonderful had happened. Billy had slowly, gently kissed him.

"See you, Michael."

And Michael had fought back tears as he replied huskily, "Yeah. See you, Billy."

What did it all mean? Billy, Michael, kisses, dancing, dresses, poofs, Jamie Steeple... Everything blurred together into a bright, painful pool of images. He had to pull himself away from them, think of something else, for he feared that if he looked too long he'd fall inside and drown.

Michael sighed and jammed his hands deep into his pockets, walking slowly through the darkening streets. He didn't understand Billy. He didn't understand why people thought what he felt for boys was wrong. He didn't even understand himself. Maybe he was a poof and Billy was too. Maybe neither of them was.

The only thing Michael did know that when Billy kissed his nothing else in the world mattered, and there was only a rush of heat that canceled out everything else. Sharp tingles shot up and down his arms and legs like they had gone to sleep and blood was beginning to circulate again. Like electricity.

Electricity.