Disclaimer: Billy Elliot does not belong to me, nor am I getting any money for writing this.
A/N: This story has been sitting around for a while in my room, I hope that you enjoy it. What you have to do is 'read between the lines'. It's based after the movie Billy Elliot, if you had not realised. I'd love some reviews on this. Thanks!
An envelope lay on the pillow; the paper ripped jaggedly right across the top. Michael sat in his shadowy bedroom, perched on the edge of his quilt, ankles crossed, legs bare, holding a piece of paper in one hand and keeping himself upright with the other. He read it again. He couldn't quite believe it. Had it already been so long? What was he thinking, of course it had, it had been an age. He'd been doing practically nothing since. His life had been one long stretch of nothing. At school he stared blankly at the empty chair in front of his own desk, nobody noticed if he didn't show up. He slept, curled in a ball with lonely tears sliding down his cheeks. He ate, when he had to, not really tasting what passed his lips. And he made slow, shoe scuffing walks up and down the neighbourhood streets. That, and attempted to dance to old records in his bedroom. He wasn't any good at it, the dancing. But he did it anyway. He rather enjoyed it. And anything to bring back the memories. He could almost pretend that Billy was still there.
He moved backwards so his head touched the cool wall, pulled his feet up on the bed, and clasped his bare knees. He stared at the paper as if it would change. He almost expected it to. Everything else let him down.
It had been a long time. But the memories had kept him company these past few months. Made it seem as if it was only a dream, that it was only yesterday that he'd had someone to talk to. Someone to share with. He'd made himself believe it, that it was all a dream. It was better than the reality. That he was lonely. That he was scared. He scared himself. His thoughts scared him. There were some things that he couldn't convey on the phone or in letters. He knew that he could only barely convey them to himself. So there they stayed, locked up inside him. He was lonely, and he missed his best friend. His only friend. Michael stared at the letter. He'd had many letters of course. They wrote once a week, back and forth. He was afraid Billy was only writing out of pity, that he didn't really care anymore. He worried that they no longer understood each other like they used to, where they could read everything in each other's faces, their expressions. Without words. Words weren't the same through letters. They could talk through lack of words face to face. The lack of words wasn't the same through letters.
How's ballet?
Great!
How's life?
Okay.
Soulless.
It wasn't really okay. It could never be okay when you felt like you'd been split in two. That half of you was missing, and living hours away in London. But there was really nothing that he could do about it. So he didn't say anything. So he had been alone in his thoughts, in his worries. Alone. Alone and feeling dead. There was no one else that could make Michael feel alive. That special quality. The feeling of comfort. Of Life itself. Even if there was someone else out there who could, the other boys ignored him. Or hit him. He knew it was his own fault. Too weak. Too quiet. Not interested in sports. Too weird.
The only person who could make him really laugh was gone. So he didn't laugh.
He slid off the edge of the bed. The shoes clicked as they hit the floorboards, and he walked slowly to his mirror, his view still glued to the paper he held slightly creased in one shaking hand.
He couldn't grasp something in his mind, and he struggled with it.
He hadn't been… he hadn't been forgotten.
Something caught in his throat. Everyone else forgot him. His shoulders trembled. He was understood. And he was remembered. Even across the distance of time and space. He was understood.
Michael looked at the sad blue eyes staring back at him in the mirror. He touched his lips, his fingers then trailing up to his cheek.
Trust.
A floorboard creaked behind him in the hallway. In his open doorway. His father. Home early. Michael's stomach lurched, but he turned to face the figure in the door frame and tensed, waiting for it.
When the voice came, it was not in anger, not in shock. It was quiet, calm. "What are you wearing, Michael."
Michael did not reply, did not hurry to wipe at his lips, he just watched, waiting for his father to turn and leave. Or get angry.
He didn't. He took a step into the room.
"What have you got there?" he asked curiously, gesturing to Michael's hand.
"A letter," Michael replied. Subconsciously, he moved it behind his back, protecting it.
"Ah." His father just stood and watched him in return. After a few moments of silence, a strange look passed his face. Regret, Michael realised with a shock. As his father slowly turned to leave, Michael spoke again.
"From Billy."
His father turned back and smiled. Michael felt his face warm into a huge smile in return. He read that short letter over in his mind again.
"Hi Michael,
I'm sending this to you at the same time as a letter to my dad. I'm coming home for the summer, can't wait. The bus should be in at 4 pm. I've already organised with Dad that he'll take you to meet me at the bus station with them, and stay for dinner, then you can stay the night if you want. We'll have to sleep out in the living room so we can talk. Seeya then mate!
No, I still haven't worn a tutu.
Miss you, from Dancing Boy"
He missed him. He accepted him, and understood him. He was able to read this like he could read Billy. He couldn't expect Billy to understand him. But somehow, Michael knew that he did. He had been afraid that he would be left behind, he couldn't help it.
"He's coming home"
"That's really nice, son."
Michael just smiled. It was far better than nice. Billy, his best friend, was coming home.