So a quick cab ride and we're checking into the hotel, early. Maxxie's a regular travel agent - place is pretty fucking impressive, seven storey former Victorian boarding house directly across the road from the beach.

Room's amazing. Way nicer than I expected; top floor, with an ocean view, huge flat screen tv with full cable, decent sized loo, in-room microwave and fridge, a big desk and couch and two fair sized double beds. Big enough for an orgy, for sure.


Not the palace I'd expected, especially for the price I'm paying, but whatever, it's cool, room's huge, and we're near to everything.

Quickly we dump our bags and head straight to the boardwalk, where Tony pulls me by hand onto the dreaded Super Booster. I'm not chickenshit, honest, but I also don't like the idea of anything that makes me scream bloody frigging murder. In public, anyway.


Such a pansy. Had to drag him on board, but it was so worth it ! Terrifying ! But in a good way. You actually think they're gonna drop you into the ocean from twenty storeys up, only to be swung downward at sixty miles an hour, swooping over the crowd so low you could scalp people, and seconds later, it's over.

Maxxie screamed like a hyena the whole way and dug his nails into my arm with both hands. Almost drew blood. What a hoot.


Afterwards, still reeling from the near-vomit experience, it took me about twenty minutes to both walk and talk normally, after which I dragged Tony into the Fun House with it's coloured strobe lights, freaky mirrors and alternately moving stairs and sidewalks, then straight to the Fright Chamber where, giggling away, we were put into adjacent medieval stocks while a combination Bela Lugosi/Jack the Ripper type ran round with the equivalent of a torch under his chin, howling at us in a bad Bavarian accent.

Then onto the water splash log ride thing, which, despite getting soaked, was indeed a blast. Never screamed louder or laughed harder in my life.


"Christ, Max." He bellowed afterwards. "We should move to frigging Brighton !"


Then a break for bad food – fried dough, candy floss, weird carmelly and oddly flavoured popcorns, brightly colored slurpies, then the shooting gallery, where between us we knocked off thirteen rabbits, then back to the main feature: the rides, of course. Max insisted on the Ferris Wheel, which I admit, while a definite granny-ride, was surprisingly cool, if only for the kickarse views.

"Look at the fucking beach, Tone !"

"Christ, and the ocean, and the town, and all the people ! I had no idea Brighton was this big."

He points.

"Somewhere down there is your future wife."

"Yuh," I snort.

He points harder.

"Her. Right there ! Blonde, short-shorts."

I look. Not terrible, at least from here.

"I bet her name's Bambi, or something."

"No – Bunny."

He cups his hands round his mouth.

"Hey Bunny !"

"Shut up, Maxxie !"

"How's your minge ?" He shouts, before I can clamp my hand over his face.

Right then, of course, she looks up at us, and since the ride's on it's downward descent, we each get a clear view of the other, and Bunny is not pleased.


Okay, naughty, I admit. It's my mood.

And we did try to contain ourselves, but the girl's scowl was so over the top it only added to the hilarity – up close she resembled an angry nun in a bikini top, which caused us to double over in our seat, hooting away, almost pissing ourselves, and then, when the ride ended, pulling each other physically along, wiping our eyes, and clutching our sides.


The ride operator saw the whole thing and had a few choice words for us but we ran off, straight for the Bullet Train, which sent us flying down insanely steep hills, swirling through loops, going completely upside down, sideways, and then back again, the two of us shrieking away like idiots. Fantastic. Most fun I've had in my whole goddamn life, and we've only been here an hour.


Finally after three or four more rides, a few more cracks at the "games of chance" in which Tony won me an adorable stuffed pink baby elephant, as well as an oversized, rather phallic looking lollipop, we visit the arcade for nearly two hours of Rock Band, Grand Theft Auto 3, Call of Duty 4, and several old time Pac Man-era video games. Not really my thing, but Tony's beside himself, running from game to game like a little boy.

It's so sweet, I could kiss him.


"Christ," he laments, flopping backward onto the bed, at our hotel. "This town's got me fucking beat ! What's wrong with me, Max?"

"Tony," I call from the bathroom, attempting to fix my wind and sand-blown hair, "we haven't stopped running since we got here. Fucking 800 mile an hour rides, and twelve of them. I don't think my stomach can take much more."

"Neither mine. Let's get like, lunch, already."

"Tony, you've been eating all day."

"Ya, but complete fucking crap. I need a real meal, then we'll hit the beach."

I sigh, giving up on my hair, which is now to be subject to salt water.


I'm laying back, wasted, but thoroughly exhilarated over the day thus far plus additional fun to be had ... when it suddenly hits me. Much as I've complained and been depressed over the turn of events in my sorry life, from the accident to surgeries and coma and endless therapy, to the loss of my friends, girlfriend, and then the ego crushing misery of impotence ... I am, I realize, happy as a fucking clam, and it takes not more than a second to realize why:

Maxxie.

Maxxie, who could've easily fucked off along with the rest, but because he's such a thoroughly decent bloke, didn't – didn't even cross his mind, apparently, even though I've given him, fuck knows, plenty of reasons over the last year, right up to, I'm fairly certain, the loss of a genuine article boyfriend.

I sit up and look at him. It's a bit weird. I feel a lightness flooding my chest, a sort of weird feeling of what I can only call contentment.

Suddenly it all makes sense – everything I've been through, maybe all the way back to the day I was born, was leading up to this. It was all planned, so that one day I could experience a certain epiphany.

That I'm in love with Maxxie.


Good and warm (albeit highly confused) as such a thing makes me feel, on the heels of it is the stern knowledge that I therefore owe it to him to indeed, step back. I will not stand in the way of what he, more than anyone I know, so richly deserves: the love of somebody who's right for him. The love of a good man.


He's rifling through his suitcase for his swimming trunks, the new pair he bought specially for this trip, which he made sure were bright flaming pink, lest, he explained, his Bristol-strength gaydar fail him here in Brighton.

Brilliant plan, really.

"Right. So we'll position ourselves near a pack of girls, for you, which'll meanwhile give me perfect cover to scan the beach for muscle."

I laugh.

"Max."

"What, Tone ?" he says, but ignores me and proceeds to hold up a succession of shirts, asking which show off his best feature, best.

"Wait, what best feature ?"

He places a hand against his belly and looks insulted.

"My abs, of course. And I do have a lovely broad back, not to mention a perfect arse. Anyway, so, do I go for obvious/slutty, and wear this one ?" He asks, holding up a shirt that's at least two sizes too small. "Or the less poofy, sporty number ?" He looks at it, and then muses, "maybe not. Straight bloke'll approach me to talk about the game and fucking scores and kicks and maneuvers and shit; totally missing the point."

I smile. Christ, he's adorable sometimes.

"Which is ?"

"The beauty of the male form, Tone. All those gorgeous, fit, sweaty, dirt-caked men running round in tiny shorts, underneath which is worn a mere jock strap. I mean, how hot is that ? ! Did you know if you look, you can see the elastic thing that holds it criss-crossing their butts ?"

I burst out laughing.

"Is that so, Maxxie ? If you look real close you can see it ?"

"Yes, arsehole. I keep telling you, gays have the best of both worlds. Not only can we enjoy the sport itself, like straights can, but we can admire all that beautiful male flesh, too."

"Max."

"Oh, yes, sorry. What is it, Tone ? Got caught up in fashion dilemmas. One must be careful with such things. And fuck, my hair's a dreadful mess. I'll have to wash and completely re-jig it before we go out tonite."

"Max."

He stops.

"What ?"

"Thanks."

He squints.

"Huh? For what ?"

I smile.

"For everything, mate. Seriously. For taking care of me all this time, and lifting my spirits a hundred million times and shit. I don't think I've ever actually said it."

He shrugs.

"It's okay. You don't have to thank me. It's no big deal."

"No big deal ? Are you kidding ? Max, you pretty much saved my life."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Christ, listen to me. I don't mean the injuries, I mean everything else. Being my best mate as much as you've been. You're like a fucking saint. And now here you go blowing all your birthday money on a trip with me when you could be here with some hot guy."

"I don't want to be with some hot guy," he blurts.


Fuck, I want to fly into the air and reclaim the revealing words before they reach his ears.

"Huh ? What are you on about ? You talk about it all the time, arsehole."

"Um," I stumble. "Right. Ya. Sorry. Thinking about which shirt."

"Who cares about your shirt ! We're going to the beach – you won't be wearing your bloody shirt."

"On approach and exit, I will be, Tone. That's when any nearby prospects will be more likely to turn and watch."

"So then, why not just be shirtless ? Show off those famous abs ?"

He shakes his head.

"No. You don't wanna flaunt it too much. Sends the wrong message."

He grins.

"Which is ?"

"That I'm a tart, or something. Indiscriminate. I do try to choose carefully, you know."


Down on the beach, I lay our blanket near a pack of bikinis, which for some reason makes Tony uncomfortable.

We whip off our shirts (I settled on something midway between slutty and sporty) and stand a moment, surveying the water, and the crowd.

I'm thrilled when the nearby girls turn to give a look, but then realize with horror, that it's mainly me they're checking out. Don't the pink shorts give me away ?

I turn to Tony. He's jittery, and I suddenly realize why. His scars, which all but dominate his chest. The thick, long, raised, jagged and still mostly pink number across the center, the smaller ones where they inserted cameras and tubes to pump up his two collapsed lungs, and the equally jagged and violent looking one along his back.

Suddenly without a word he sprints ahead of me running full bore for the water, and I follow. It seems obvious he's running equally from self conscious embarrassment, as much as the desire to swim.

God, I feel awful.


No matter though, he throws himself in, joyfully, it seems, and I as well, and fuck ! Not quite as warm as I'd hoped, but then this is hardly Barbados. Still, we quickly grow used to it, and Tony's animated again.

"Wanna learn to surf one of these days, Max. Looks pretty fucking cool on the telly."

"Where do you see surfing on telly ?"

"Baywatch."

I laugh.

"Of course. So did any of the girls appeal ?"

He shrugs, floating on his back and turning his head to blow bubbles in the water.

"Dunno."

"The redhead's a knockout, Tone. Built."

"Ehh."

"I think she was looking at you."

"She was gawking at my scars, Max. They all were. Should've kept my shirt on."

"Tony, some women like scars."

He looks at me annoyed.

"I'm serious. It makes you look tough. Battle worn, like. Some of them really dig that."

"Nah, that's only if you've got a small mark on your face or something, like from a fight. Not your whole torso cut to ribbons like me."

"Tony, you're dead good looking. I've told you before."

He looks annoyed again. "You're my friend, Max. Sorta required to say such things, aren't ya?" And then turns and dives deep and graceful into the water, feet kicking straight up into the air behind him. As a dancer, something I can't help but be impressed by.

When he comes up it's 20 metres away. I swim over and immediately work to disabuse him of the notion that he could somehow be unattractive.

"Don't insult me, okay ? I wouldn't bullshit you about this. Remember, you're the same guy who pulled every girl in Bristol, and believe me, it wasn't only with your charm."

"I'm skinny as a stick, now."

"You weren't exactly Mister He-Man back then, Tone." I sigh. "Where is this coming from all of a sudden ?"

"Fuck it. I just wanna swim."

"Come on. Tell me."

He shrugs.

"Just felt sort of humiliated back there, Max. Like a freak."

"Well, there's no need. You're beautiful. You're bright, and funny. You're a total prize, and don't give me that bullshit about being required to say such things. The fact that I know you better than anyone gives me the qualifications to judge you for who you are. I'm betting you're going to score tonite, or this weekend, successfully, in fact I'm gonna just about guarantee it. If not with the redhead, then with some other hottie."

He smiles a bit, but still looks rather broody, and in the sunlight, with the blue water surrounding him, which it so happens is the same colour as his eyes, is rather heart-stoppingly radiant.

"Thanks Max."


Back up at our blanket, as we're drying off, Max suddenly turns to the assembled bikinis.

"Do you guys know any good clubs in town ?"

Pretty smooth opener for a gayboy.

A few names are thrown out, and I can't help but notice the redhead ogling me, and not in a good way. It's freakshow time, as far as she's concerned.

Just as I'm about to snap at her that I was hit by a bus and to please go fuck herself, Maxxie blurts.

"This is my mate, Tony. He's in the army. Just got back from Iraq."

Christ, he really is smooth – my scars go in one instant from grotesque, to heroic.

"Were you shot ?" One of them freely asks me.

"And stabbed," Maxxie replies quickly, nodding. This admittedly has more of a swashbuckling appeal to it.

It does seem to do the trick – suddenly introductions are going all the way around. Redhead, who it turns out is French, is called Marie, and is indeed built. As small talk is made, mainly by Maxxie (I'm far too jittery and out of practice for such things), I have a sudden picture in my mind of ramming my cock into her cleavage.

A bit of a fatigued notion for my brain at this point, I admit. Something I have the weirdly unsettling feeling I've sort of outgrown.


After probably a bit too much chatter, I retire to our blanket, thrilled in the knowledge that I've very possibly created a hookup, for later, the girls strongly hinting that they will be hanging at the Honey Club.

"So, soldier boy," I gloat, careful to keep my voice low. "Fairly easy, that. You're as good as fucked."

He groans.

"Tell that to my cock."

"She's pretty gorgeous, though, huh ?"

"Who ?"

"Marie, you dolt."

He shrugs. It's slightly maddening.

"I guess."

"Tits," I say encouragingly. "Girl's got tits."

"Shut up, Max."

Yes, shut up. Stop pressuring him, for fuck's sake.

I kneel and reach for my sun screen lotion.

"Right. Well, sit up. You're so pale, you'll burn in ten seconds."

He does, begrudgingly, and I begin applying it to his back. Sigh, the scarring is rather gruesome, but also fascinating in a weird way. A permanent marker of all he's been through. It certainly makes him stand out, but then Tony's never been one to blend in.

God knows he has dazzlingly perfect skin otherwise, and I've grown to love the pale white, which contrasts so beautifully with his jet black hair. Gorgeous look, really. Also, much as I go on about muscles, I'm afraid my feelings for Tony have coloured my long-held notions of the physical ideal. Yes, muscles are glorious things, they've called to me all my life, but as I run my fingers over his back I'm seeing and feeling that he does have them, it's just that they're more subtle, like a swimmer's. Not something that has previously appealed to me in the least, and yet ...

Suddenly I have a vivid flash of Marie's fingers dragging down this very back, and it's like a punch in the gut. Damn. Already, I hate her.

No. I don't. It's something he's craved beyond all else, and so I have to want it for him. Soon as the impotence is cured, which it will be, it's only a matter of time, either by force, or through therapy, Tony will be off to a blissful, lengthy much deserved stint in Fuckland. And, as his best mate, I will be happy for him.

I will.


Weird feeling, have to say, his hands on me. I even feel a bit guilty. Almost like sneaking and getting the girl you like to fuck you in the dark because she mistakes you for her boyfriend.

Max has no idea what's gone on in my head these last few months, of course, let alone the intensifying of it of late, and if he did, he'd very likely not be right now rubbing lotion into my naked back.

Fuck though, his hands feel amazing. Soft, and strong, and smooth. He knows how to massage, professional-like, and that's almost what it feels like. Incredibly good. Too good.

I stop him.

"Okay. Enough, already."

"Do me, then," he says.

Fuck.

He sits, and turns away from me, and I mean ... it's the weirdest thing in the world. Like I've been hit with fairy dust.

Maxxie's body. Seeing it, in a way, for the first time. He, who goes on about muscles, has loads of 'em. His back forms that highly sought after "V" shape, in fact, one can't help but notice, and is covered in skin so perfect, and perfectly tanned, it's sorta ridiculous.

And now I'm supposed to run my hands over it ?

Christ. I can't really be thinking these thoughts. I can't. This is insane. This is Maxxie. My friend. Who yes, I have a huge crush on. Alright, more than a huge crush.

Maybe I should tell him, right here and now. I can't do it, Max. I can't rub lotion on you. It's not right. It's taking advantage. Why?

Because I'm in love with you.


He turns his head in annoyance.

"Tony, what the fuck ? Come on. There's only a few more hours of sunlight."

My mouth goes dry. I squirt out a batch into my hand, raise it, and close my eyes.

"So," he says all nonchalant. "If you need the room later, just gimme a signal, and I'll hang out in the bar til you call my mobile."

"Huh ?" I ask, my voice weak. Fuck, this is agony. It's like a god's body, under my fingers, a Greek mythical god; smooth, broad, tanned, healthy, perfectly proportioned. Spectacular, really.

"Marie," he whispers, quite pointedly.

Oh her, I think.

When what I want is you.


Okay, be a man. Admit it. You've either lost your mind, or turned slightly gay. Or bi. Or maybe you were all along.

No I wasn't. I know I wasn't.

Okay, well then the accident did it to you, or the coma. Or the stress of the last year. Or all this exposure to Maxxie.

Yes, it's Maxxie's fault.

Idiot. You can't "catch" gay, like you can a frigging cold.

Either way, it'll pass.

I really need it to pass.

Okay. Pussy. One night with Marie and I'll not only maybe be magically healed of my impotence, but more importantly, this bizarre ... weirdness, or affliction or whatever the fuck it is. Illness. Sickness.

Sickness ?

It doesn't feel like a sickness.

It feels like a cure.


After a quick and cheap dinner we hit the clubs. Audio, which is huge, two storeys, right on the beach, and has a second floor terrace overlooking same, has many pretty people of all persuasions. We down a few drinks and then I jump in the middle of the dance floor and begin spinning round, I admit, showing off a bit, and having a fine time dancing by myself – Tony preferring to stand and watch the crowd, he says.


Actually I'm watching Maxxie.


To my disappointment I'm approached by no one, but then this is a straight club. Next we move on to Gemini, and no amount of whining will coax Tony to the floor and so, annoyed, I abandon him for the better part of 40 minutes and dance my arse off.

When fatigue finally overtakes me, I move back toward him but take an immediate right turn as ...

... he's chatting up a girl ! ! ! ! !

Some pretty, curly haired brunette in a tight, glittering top, who, seconds later, walks off.

I approach.

"Who was that ?"

"No one."

"What happened ?"

He glares at me.

"Nothing. Too much like Michelle, okay? Let's hit your gay club."

"After. Remember? We have a date at Honey Club, with Marie."


Honey Club, while perfectly situated on the beach, and bustling with many lovely dancers and clubbers, proves disappointing, not the least because we spend a full hour here and there is no sign whatever of Ms French Redhead or any of her bikini pals.

Christ.

I want to stay longer, just in case, but Tony, undoubtedly sorely disappointed, suggests instead that we "hit your frigging gay club already, and then call it a night."


At said gay club, Revenge, the biggest such place in the area by far, I have near-immediate offers of drinks, but ignore them and instead, head for the huge, pulsing dance floor.

Dancing is many things, to me. An art. I hope one day, a profession. A turn on. A turn off, sometimes. Great exercise. But always an excellent way to clear the head.

In the distance, I spy Tony, who is approached by boys and girls alike, this club also being popular with straights. However I can't help but notice that he seems to be avidly watching me.

Undoubtedly just bored.

It's his own fault. He's been approached in all 4 clubs tonite, and thus had ample opportunity to try to set up scoring opportunities for himself, but won't lift a bloody finger.


When yet another girl approaches him, and almost immediately walks away, I feel both very annoyed with him, and guilty for putting him through this, and approach, myself.

"Come on, Tone. You can't tell me none of these girls appeal."

He shrugs.

"Some of 'em are okay. Just not in the mood."

The mood ? What happened to horn-dog boy who is constantly on me about sex and tits ? God, he is nothing if not frustrating.

"Well, we can come back tomorrow, maybe." I then try it on him, even though I know it's futile. "Will you at least come out on the dance floor with me ? Please?"

To my great surprise, he agrees.


Don't know what I'm doing, but before I can do it, a big bloke steps in and whispers something in Max's ear, which seems to be the magic words as it stops him dead in his tracks.

He looks mildly guilty at me, but I smile and do what I've promised ... step away ... even if it sort of hurts ... and watch as he heads for the floor with Muscle Man.

As they sway slowly round each other, I'm hit with a mix of quite intense emotions. Jealousy, to be sure. The bloke's older than me, early 20's I'd say, well dressed, good looking in a rugged sort of way, seems like the type with money, but is more importantly in possession of a healthy set of bulging biceps, the type I'm positive Maxxie imagines would carry him to a bed, or pin him, or hold him, effortlessly, by the hips, against a wall. The type that would make it into his secret sketchpad.

Of the other emotions I feel, one of them is, strangely, pride. That people notice him like they do, not the least reason being he's the best, most graceful and artful dance out there, even if he's barely working at it – this sort of dancing is play, for Maxxie, pure fun, not anything he has to think about ... and is a complete joy to watch.

That I can count this amazing creature as my friend makes me proud, especially.

I imagine for a moment standing on a pedestal, in fact, asking for the music to be turned down, taking a mic and announcing to the crowd that Maxxie, the brightest and handsomest lad here, the most naturally gifted dancer and artist, the funniest and and funnest and smartest, most loyal kickarse person in the room and in fact in maybe all of Europe, is my one and only best mate, and that any of you who dare have your eyes on him had better well fucking be up to snuff, be worthy of him, or I will kill you.


As they dance on and on, and the bloke starts making his move, holding Maxxie, taking him by the waist, whispering into his ear, letting a hand brush down over his arse ... clear signs that I will be the one vacating the room tonite ... I start to become sort of ill.

My chest tightens, and I can't get air. A wave of nausea grips me. I gulp down my drink, but it doesn't help, doesn't blot out the view I have of a dance floor seduction of the person I'm in love with ... and it all comes crashing.

Everything. Everything I felt earlier today, that I was happy, that life was great, that it all made sense and was building to a glorious climactic moment of truth – that Maxxie and I were a preordained thing ... and that I was cool enough and selfless and mature enough, that I loved him enough to step aside ... all of it is instantly exposed for the cruel, delusional bullshit that it was. That in reality, save for Maxxie, I'm alone in the world, and that as long as I know him I will be subject to this same sight, of him being swept into the arms of a man, of many men of appeal and interest and muscle and money, men who will love him and whom he will love, and none of them will be me.

I'm sweating. I turn. I can't watch. I feel truly ill – my stomach doing flips, my head pounding, the loud music suddenly an assault.

I dive for the exit.


On paper, he ticks every box. By rights I should be hard as rock and counting the seconds til we fuck, but my heart's not in it.

I look off, trying to think up an excuse to break away from this bloke who slightly to my annoyance clearly considers this a done deal, and spy Tony, looking upset, making his rapid way towards the door.

I bolt – something's wrong, and run after him, and catch up outside.

"Are you okay ? What is it ?"

He's paler than normal, and agitated.

"Nothing."

"What is it, Tone ? Tell me for fuck's sake."


Christ, I'm near to hyperventilating. The irony and misery and horror of the whole thing is hitting me like a collapsing brick wall ... of having a mate you've stupidly, so stupidly fallen in love with, the person you tell everything in the world to, no matter how small, no matter how huge or embarrassing ... and you realize that you must keep this one deadly, horrible secret from him. That you will lose him, otherwise.

I want simultaneously to cry, to jump off the roof, and to scream my fucking lungs out.

He places a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you sick ?"


His eyes widen, and he laughs bitterly. He says nothing for a minute, then blurts,

"Yes! Sick. Sick in the fucking head. Lost my fucking mind, in fact."

"Tony, what are you talking about ? What's wrong ?"


I can't say it.

I can't.

And here he stands, waiting, with a look of deep concern and worry in his eyes.

Christ, it's so fucking Maxxie, isn't it ? That he'd dart from the number one choice fuck of the evening to the side of a friend simply to check that he's okay. There might not even be anything wrong. For all he knows, I'm out here to catch some air or chat up a girl ... but that's not how Maxxie operates.

"Tone, please, you're scaring me. What is it ? You have to tell me."

My innards are bound up tight, my eyes are starting to sting, my chest feels like it's filling with cement. I have a momentary thought that I might keel over right here, that if I don't say it, don't finally release this buildup of pressure in my skull, it'll cause more damage than the brain bleed ever could.

I try like fuck to hold off ... but simply don't have the strength. I force myself to look at him ... and out it tumbles.

"I love you, Maxxie."

His face softens, and turns all brotherly on me.

"I love you, too, Tone-"

I shake my head slowly and bristle in preemptive humiliation.

"-No. You don't understand. I love you, Max. I love you. I'm ... christ ... in love ... with you."

He swallows and looks at me a minute with his mouth hung slightly opened, and when it closes, I know it's hit home.


In a word, I'm flattened.

But then immediately realize, he's off his head. Clearly. Of course. He's confused. Overtired. Drunk, maybe. Did the rides today affect the brain bleed after all ? Or maybe someone slipped something into his drink. Or perhaps he's finally cracked. A year's delay in that, but still, it could happen.

I reach for his hand. I speak softly.

"Tony, I think maybe-"

"-Don't, Max," he snaps.

I search his eyes.

"Don't what ?"

"Don't ... dismiss it. Don't you fucking dare. It's true. Do you think I would fuck with you about this ?"

I swallow down a big gulp.

"No, but-"

"-Then don't. This is humiliating enough."

"But Tony-"

He takes two steps away, then back, pacing in front of me, looking down, speaking quickly, but clearly. Not drunk, then.

"-I-I ... I don't know how in fuck it happened. I don't understand it. It just did. I don't know how or why it could've happened, but it did ... I'm, I'm sorry."

My god ... my god. He's ... he's ... serious ?

But ... ? ?

Fuck.

I know Tony inside and out. And so I know him well enough to see that he is indeed, not fucking with me. Meaning he's dead bloody serious, and aside from the understandable agitation he's displaying, appears to be of entirely sound mind.

Wow.

I mean ... holy blithering christ.

At another time I will work through my shock and bafflement. Despite my belief in his sincerity, I will argue with him - it's the only right thing to do - that he's confused, that he's straight and that this doesn't make sense and is perhaps a byproduct of cumulative stress and that it's maybe not the best thing for him. I will encourage him to take his time and work through his feelings and come out the other side. At the moment, however, a huge surge of glowing, unmitigated joy rockets through me. In fact, I'm flying.

I grip his hand tight. I look into his face, and smile, warmly, sincerely, bursting with all the love in my heart.

"I'm in love with you, too, Tony."

He rips his hand away.

"Fuck you ! Stop it, Max."

"No – fuck you ! It's true ! I have been for a long while, I swear! I was too afraid to tell you !"


Fucking bastard. It can't be. I know Maxxie inside out. He can't keep a fucking secret ! He's never once let on. Also, he'd never go for someone like me ! Skinny, fucked up, scarred up, friendless, brain damaged loser.

The realization that he's patronizing me, playing along out of sympathy or pity ... I mean, holy shit. Just completely turn my stomach. Just call into question our whole fucking friendship, why don't you.

The humiliation complete, disgusted and devastated and feeling like I must not know him, afterall, and with no clue in the world where I'm headed, I turn to leave.

A split second later I'm swung round hard to face him.


A second after that, I throw my mouth at his, fucking stubborn straight boy, and kiss the bleeding shit out of him.