Two mornings later, out of the clear blue, it happens.

He's splayed out, as usual, on my couch. As I'm clearing away his collection of leftover empty tins and bags of crisps, I notice it. Gripping a bunched up section of blanket... is his perfectly formed right fist.

Holy christ!

I'm so shocked, I actually slap him across the face.

"Tony!" I shout.

He bolts upright.

"What ? ? What is it ? !" he says in a groggy panic, apparently assuming the building's on fire.

I point.

"Your hand ! !"

He looks. His eyes swell.

"Fuck ! !"

Just then, mum rushes into the room.

"What happened? What's wrong ?"

We both look at her.

"Nothing," I blurt.

She approaches and takes Tony's hands and examines them.

"You said something about Tony's hand. What's wrong with it ?"

"Nothing," Tony blurts. "Um, it was just ... it was in a weird position – I slept on my hand weird. It hurt a bit; it's fine now."

"Are you sure ?"

"Ya," I answer, adrenaline pumping. Tony can masturbate ! ! "Sorry. My fault, mum."

She sighs.

"Okay, then. If you're sure, I'm off." She kisses us both on the cheek and leaves.

Soon as the door's shut we're flying around in a giddy panic.

"Porn, I need PORN !"

"Where is that Asian fanny magazine ?"

"At my house !"

"Upstairs – my computer !"

We race there, my heart banging away in my chest.

"Maybe you can use the mouse, now, too."

"Whatever ! Later ! Just find me pictures of tits !"

I click and hunt, and then he pushes me bodily from the room the moment a suitable selection of images appear.

I stand on the other side, panting with excitement and nerves. This is an absolutely humongous moment in Tony's life – the moment he'd nearly given up on - getting his sexuality back.

I pace back and forth. Through the door I can just make out the faint but distinct sound of female sexual grunting – he's apparently found a video. Shouldn't be more than a minute, then.

I'm sweating, and as the potential magnitude of it hits, suddenly gripped with piercing anxiety.

The moment Tony conquers his erectile demons is the moment he's as good as got a girlfriend.

What difference does it make to you if he's got a girlfriend ? ! It's what he wants. What he needs and deserves and has been dying for for a whole year !

I'm happy for him. Truly.

I blink. My pacing quickens. My mouth dries.

So then why is my gut twisting up like this ?

Several minutes along, I hear the squeak of my mattress, meaning he's apparently collapsed backwards onto my bed, following an orgasm of undoubtedly overwhelmingly strength.

I tentatively knock.

"Tone ? Alright ?"

He doesn't answer.

"Tone ? You done ?"

"Yup," is his flat reply. "Completely finished."

I grin, and open the door, and then immediately whip my head to the side. He's laying there with his trousers open, limp cock fully exposed.

"Tony, what the fuck."

His voice cracks.

"Is there something wrong with it, Maxxie ?"

"Huh ? What do you mean ? What happened ?"

"Nothing. Nothing fucking happened. That's what happened."

Oh god, please, no.

His voice breaks.

"Will you please look at it ? You've had loads of cock. Maybe you can tell if there's something wrong."

God, this is so awful.

"Tony, I'm sure there's nothing-"

"-Look at it for fuck's sake !"

I turn. I approach. It's very, very weird to encounter your best mate's naked cock ... which to my eyes, appears healthy and normal. Handsome, even.

I sit and say it carefully as I can.

"It looks fine, Tone. I'm not seeing anything."

He sniffles.

"Nothing ? Are you absolutely sure ?"

I gulp.

"Yes."

He reaches, tucks himself back behind his zipper, and sits up, by me. He's silent for long moments, staring at the floor, then speaks haltingly.

"I'm done for, Max. Over with. I'm not kidding."

I touch his hand.

"Tony, listen to me. This is a common problem; there's loads of help out there- pills, and viagra and shit-"

"-Can't. Not with a brain bleed – too risky. Doc said."

I look at him.

"Fuck. I, I didn't know you'd asked." I grip his hand. I look off. "There are sex therapists and stuff. I'll go with you, no problem, Tone. We could go today."

I then feel it, a small vibration in the mattress. I look. His shoulders have slumped forward and his back is shaking away from the sobs.

"This is so fucking awful; you have no idea. So humiliating. I just wanna fucking die."

My heart plummets into my gut. I'm desperate for the right words, but can't find them. I lean and hold him, quietly shushing, though he's inconsolable.

"Why did I even wake up ?"

From the coma, he means. God. I softly rub his back, and start to cry with him – it can't be helped. It's unbearable, seeing him so broken.

"I'm so glad you did." I sniffle. "I love you, Tone. You're my best friend in the whole world."

He doesn't hear me.

"Haven't I been punished enough ?"

"Shhh. It was just a mistake, an accident. You're not being punished. I promise."

"Yes I am," he sobs. "For what I was. For being such a cunt."

I throw my arms around him.

"Listen to me Tony; I know you better than anyone on this earth. You're not who you were, before. You're beautiful. You're lovely. You're brilliant. I'm so proud to have you as my friend. The guy you were – that isn't you, anymore."

Whatever impact my words have don't seem to amount to much as for the rest of the day, for the week, in fact, Tony withdraws. Except to ask me to walk him home just afterwards, he says nothing. When Effy inquires about his glumness, I just tell her he's simply feeling depressed, and wants to be left alone, but to please check in on him anyway.

When I return home, I spend the entirety of the rest of the day scouring medical journals, medical dictionaries, patients' blogs and do general online research into brain injuries and impotence, during which I learn of the apparent impossibility of overcoming the latter once a long term pattern has been established, which is precisely the case here.

I roll my chair away from my computer and have a long, back shaking bawl, so hard that my sides and belly hurt. It's absolutely unbearable, this feeling of helplessness, hopelessness, the lost, desperate look in his eye. Overcome with depression, rage and sadness, head hammering away in pain, I pop three aspirins and fall to my bed, asleep.

His voice is flat on the phone, as always, these days.

"I don't care."

"Tony, come on. You've been holed up in your room for weeks. Come to the movies with me."

"Don't want to."

"Listen to me. Effy says you're scaring your mother. She's afraid you're gonna kill yourself."

"I'm not gonna fucking kill myself."

"You'd better be telling me the truth, Tone."

"Fuck you, Maxxie. I wouldn't fucking do that to Effy or my mum. Wish I could, really fucking wish I could, but I won't, okay, arsehole ?"

"God," I laugh, "that's the most you've said in weeks."

He doesn't respond.

"Tony—"

"-I gotta go."

"Please, Tone."

"What ?"

"It's me here. I care about you, mate. I love you. We all do. It's so hard to see you like this."

Even through the phone I can feel his shrug.

"Oh well."

I feel a sudden surge of anger.

"Don't fucking 'oh well' me, you bastard ! I've been there every step of the way, remember ? It's not the end of the world, y'know ! Sex isn't everything !"

Soon as the trite, howlingly condescending and inappropriate phrase leaves my lips, I cringe in horror.

"Oh no ?" he snaps. "Fuck you ! Try going a whole year without, then, understand ? A. whole. fucking. year ! In which you NEVER wank and NEVER come and DON'T have a single bloody musclebound boyfriend, got it ? ! Try that on for size, fucking cunt ! !"

The next sound I hear isn't so much a hang up as that of a phone being hurled against a wall.

When he fails to return my calls over the next three days, I finally stop by.

"Come on, Tone. It's my birthday. Please ?"

"Not in the mood."

"You're never in the mood."

He looks at me.

"I'm depressed, Max."

The simple statement of this fact makes it somehow all the worse. It's absolutely breaking my heart, watching him like this. I reach for his hand, and it washes over me. This realization that, truly, I want him to be happy more than anything in the world.

"Come to the party, Tone. You're my all time best mate. I seriously want you there."

"Bill'll be there. You can hang with bloody Bill."

"Tony, stop it. A lot of people will be there, but none of them I want more than you."

He smirks.

"Whatever. Maybe I'll stop by after."

And so, on the occasion of my 18th birthday, a day I had so long looked forward to, with huge hand rubbing anticipation and eagerness, I'm thrown a party by my parents, cousins, grandparents, uncles and aunts, an ex-boyfriend or two, and Bill, during which I'm given several surprisingly decent gifts (including a new watch, new mobile and my very own laptop) ... however it's not working. Though I try to put on a show so as not to disappoint, inside my heart is drowning in sorrow and worry.

The conclusion is inescapable: That it's a measure of how irrevocably interconnected Tony and I are, and how much I love him, that I truly can't be happy, if he isn't.