Author's note: In an effort to enhance clarity as to whose POV we are hearing, just wanted to mention that I've put double breaks between Maxxie's and Tony's sections, (even though I personally think it's less fun that way), as a reader said it can sometimes be hard to distinguish one from the other, and I'd rather that not be the case.

.

It's still there, even before I awaken, the lazy, lopsided grin, the one you get when it's morning, and there's an arm, still, wrapped tight round your waist, a body curved towards you in an impossibly wonderful spoon-embrace.

I gather it to me, twining my fingers with his, and snuggle down for a few more hours' slumber ... when my eyes bolt open.

Mother of Jesus, that is Tony behind me.

My brain flashes like a bulb. Yes, there he is, outside the club, looking unwell, pacing, uncomfortably confessing. There am I, spilling my longest held secret.

Flash. Holy bleeding christ, there we are, snogging against the club wall ... groping in the lift ... sweet motherfucking shit, there is my hand, my mouth ... on his cock. There we are, writhing naked on the bed ... somewhere all in the midst of which, he told me, twice, yes, he actually said it ... that he loved me.

Morning, now. Okay, not quite sunrise, but still, before long, heads will have cleared, no ?

What will happen ? What should happen ? Can Tony really have switched gears ? Just like that ?

Okay, yes, there's been a mountain of change in his life since Before. Eons. So why not this ?

Of course I want to believe it. Of course. Fuck, I mean, it benefits me in every conceivable way, does it not, to have as my boyfriend, my all time best mate, (and a strikingly beautiful one at that) ? What's not to like ? They say the roots of the strongest love relationships begin with deep, close friendship, correct ?

Straight boys have been interested in the past. It seems like they always have been. I am that fetching.

Me. Me. All me. What about Tony ?

Is it not my duty as his friend, which is what I am first and foremost, to argue with him and challenge him, as I told myself last night I would ? To do what's right for him ? Because, I mean, he's not entirely there, is he? Meaning only that ... he's evolving, or has been, the last year, and while yes, straightboys have come my way, it has been of the quick-wank-and-don't-look-him-in-the-eye variety, hasn't it ? With nary a major life trauma nor sexual deprivation, far as I know, preceding it.

Fuck.

No. Please. I want to believe in that pained, earnest face outside the club, so hurt that I'd doubt him ... so leaning into the kiss; hell, fucking taking the lead, in fact. I want to believe ...

What ? That he kissed you, and ... what else ? Wanked you ... exactly as straightboys have. Tony did nothing they didn't do, these guys that meant zilch to you, that were never going to be or mean anything. Obviously, it was strictly sex, for them. A willing, eager hand, and in one instance, if you recall, a mouth.

Okay, I'm good in the sack – it's well known. Now that I've re-introduced Tony to this world, or as far as he's concerned, introduced it to him, is it possible it will colour his reasoning; cloud it ? Can he really be expected to know himself, what he's saying or feeling, in the midst of the swirling, dizzying, capsizing storm that is arousal and sex ?

Flash forward ... and shudder, for there are all the shocked, disgusted faces of everyone back home; mum, dad, Tony's mum, fuck - Effy! ... the questioning, the accusations; people looking at me funny at school, in the street. If we indeed were to couple up, who amongst them won't believe I somehow swung Tony my way, schemed and manipulated and took advantage of the beautiful brain damaged being ... perhaps planned it, with utmost care and precision, all along, maybe even from day one, ... as if I was capable of such a hideous thing ?

I meant well, last night. Of course I did. He's been despondent. Practically suicidal. And when he got hard, finally, suddenly, I mean, there was kind of no other choice. I did him a favour, out of love, bringing him across the threshold; won't people see that ? It had gone on long enough, bloody impotence. I did what anyone who loves him as much as I do should have.

Yes, you're a selfless hero, Maxxie. Such a sacrifice to suck Tony off.

Fuck . You.

Okay, maybe that was harsh. But understand that he hardly owes you his life for it.

I'm not asking for his life ! I'm asking for his ... love.

Yes, just that one small thing.

Okay, yes, even if one isn't permitted to ask for such things.

It's ironic, is it not ? That'd you'd be so presumptuous. This could all be a moot point, and you know it. Because ultimately, no matter how true your feelings may be, it's hardly going to be your decision, is it ?

I look off, stressed, freaked, wanting immediately to wake him up; wanting desperately not to.

.

I wake up at some point, groggy, exhausted, having momentarily forgotten everything, and squinting and stumbling, manage to find my way to the loo for a piss. When I return, it all hits.

There, in a tiny sliver of moonlight, lays Maxxie, on the bed - the same one I just exited. See ? Over there - the other bed's still made. Which means, Maxxie and I slept together ... which means ... sweet frigging Jesus, Maxxie and I are like, lovers.

(In the far corner of my brain I hear him snap. "It's boyfriend, or fuck buddy, arsehole ! 'Lover' is what old, sleazy queens say !")

What the fuck happened ? How in all hell did this become my reality and not some fucked up 1960's acid trip ?

I back up, hand fumbling blindly for the chair behind, onto which I collapse.

I look. He's splayed out, snoring in a soft rhythm, eye sockets at rest, all that blonde hair he works so hard at, twisted and tangled, holding the pillow, which had once been under his head, in a tension death grip against his chest.

Okay. Come on, brain, bloody work. Somewhere inside you is a reaction.

Revulsion ? Is there any revulsion in there ?

Well, isn't there supposed to be ?

What exactly in fuck is my inclination ? To run ? To crawl right into that bed, next to him ?

Any why would that be ? How did we come to this, that I'm ... what ? Past girls ? For real ? Actually gay, now ? Tits ? Done with tits ?

But I don't wanna be a poof !

I look again, and it slams home: Christ, he's beautiful. How can anybody be so perfect ? Skin ? Jaw ? Neck ? Shoulders ? The bridge of his nose ? That sweet little wrinkle he gets between his eyes when he's angry or deep in thought ... that tawny half leg sticking out from under the sheet ... those fine, soft blonde hairs on that bronzed forearm ...

The images come. The sensations ... holy shit, the sensations. Maxxie, the gay magician. Bloody air felt different. Smelled different. Him. Everything. I blurted it, twice, christ, how could I not ? My deepest, darkest secret. After all the time and energy I spent – wasted – fighting it, all these months, denying it. Pretending.

But I don't wanna be a poof !

You complete arsehole. How about using that big brain of yours, for once, to maybe define your terms, huh?

Think about it ! If being a 'poof' means being with Maxxie, then ... ?

I squirm about in place.

Why ? Why does it have to be so bloody scary ?

Now's your chance, then. This is what morning afters are for. Specifically designed, in fact, for excuse making, for not looking the other party in the eye. For a quick, (un)clean exit.

I squirm and fidget further.

You're hiding. Why in fuck are you hiding ? Answer it, goddamit, the central question:

What is your inclination, here ? What is going on inside that wonky brain of yours ?

I fly out of my seat.

Fuck my brain, motherfucker; what about my other organ ?

No ! Not that one, fucking perv - that other one - thumping out a steady rhythm inside my chest, inside this pale, grotesquely scarred up torso that it turns out ... only Maxxie has eyes for.

Helpless and freaked, I watch him, for ages, the glowing, golden being on the bed, knowing all along ... that I know the goddamn answer ... I'm just too afraid to admit it.

Indeed. As the song says,

Love is a frightening way to fall.

.

I awaken with a jolt, to loud banging in my head. For a moment I'm lost, forgetting all over again ...

"Room service !" Someone yells, banging on the door again.

Holy bleeding christ, okay, that's right, we're in a hotel, aren't we ? Brighton. My eyes fly to the clock. 8am. Far as I know, we went to bed after 3. We didn't actually order it, did we ? Breakfast, when we checked in ?

Yes, I remember now - "we're hardly going to Brighton to sleep", I told him, and so we poured over the menu, giggling and ordering the most expensive things, including, if I remember right, caviar.

Bang bang ! "Room service !"

I pop out of bed, "Just a sec !" and scramble for a towel, which I throw round my waist and then sprint to the door. Damn room's so big.

Slowly ambling in is then some antiquated, dilapidated bloke in a uniform that was maybe classy in 1912, struggling to push this rather garish, top heavy cart into the room. "There you are, sir", he tells me in friendly tones ... before his eyes zig zag to the dark haired, disheveled boy in the bed, then to the adjacent still-made bed ... then back to me.

Only barely concealed is his extraordinary discomfort at having found himself in the middle of a couple of naked queers. Maybe they were even doing it when I knocked on the door.

"Thank you," I tell him quickly, but the old bastard hesitates. Oh shit, I'm supposed to tip him. "Um, just a sec," I say, diving for my trousers on the floor by the bed. Were they ripped off his body in a wild, gay frenzy ?

On the bed, Tony stretches and yawns out loud. "How's the weather ?" he croaks to the guy, all casual, cheerfully adding, "Cuz we haven't seen the outside of this room for two whole days", and then, as the man stammers and fidgets, he goes and stands bolt upright, stark bollock naked, strolling confidently to the cart and lifting the heavy silver lid to examine our food.

"Christ," he says to me as he leans over, a hand flying to his buttocks. "Are you sore ? I'm fucking sore."

I shoot him the evilest possible eye as I hand the man a pound – you arsehole, don't torture the old bastard – but before the poor bugger can scurry from the room, Tony grabs me, nuzzles into my neck and calls me his "little bitchboy".

The door shuts with a hurried slam and he bursts out laughing.

"You're evil !" I shriek, "Why did you do that ! ?"

"Cuz," he says, voice gravelly, sniffing my neck and nipping at my ear.

I pull away from him.

"We need to talk."

.

"Remember when you said to me the other day, that you didn't wanna be responsible for my ending up an old maid ?"

"Um, ya," I answer nervously, sitting on the edge of the bed whilst he for some reason sits down on the one opposite, which I'll take as a bad sign.

"Well, I'm sort of feeling the same way this morning, about you."

I squint. Christ, what, is he going to try and force Marie on me, again ?

"Meaning what, exactly ?"

"Tone, as your best friend and especially as somebody's who's been your main caregiver the last year, I have a responsibility to watch out for you and sort of ... at least try to steer you down the right path."

"Chrissake, Max, I'm not six, and you're not my frigging mum."

"No, but ... I think we should talk about this. Last night. Where it all came from, and all that."

And all that ? Like the biggest confession I will ever make was some sort of afterthought ?

"Why ?" I snap. Is he seriously breaking up with me only an inch into this ? ?

"Listen to me, Tone. I'm trying to understand this, trying to figure it all out and do the right thing, here-"

"-You always do, don't you, Max ? ! Sometimes I hate you for it ! How about for once, going with your gut ? Ever thought of that ? Were you bullshitting me last night when you said you loved me ?"

"No !" He snaps. "Of course not !"

"Well, neither was I !"

"But it doesn't mean it's the right thing for you, Tony, don't you understand ? It doesn't make sense that you'd suddenly turn gay, that you'd fall in love with a boy, can you not see why I would question that ? !"

I bolt upright.

"You arsehole ! You still don't believe me ? !"

"It's not a matter of believing you !"

"What is it a matter of, then ? Huh ? Enlighten me !"

He fidgets, seeming to not want to spit it out.

"You've been ill for a lot of the last year, in case you forgot."

"Yes ! Mentally ill ! What does that have to do with anything ?"

"Will you stop yelling please ? I love you – I meant what I said."

"So did I, only you won't motherfucking believe me !"

He flies up and stands in my face.

"Tony, for fuck's sake, what if I'd been hit by a bus, and then I came to you suddenly and said I'd turned straight, overnight. After 17, 18 years of being into boys, I was now suddenly totally into women."

"I never said that ! And it wasn't sudden and it wasn't overnight. I told you ! I'm not even into boys, just you, unfortunately ! You said straight guys have come onto you lots of times !"

"But this isn't that, is it ? This isn't a come on !"

"No ! I only wish it was ! It's way fucking more ! Scary and weird as it is, unwelcome as it may be, I'm in love with you, Maxxie, and there's nothing either you or I can do about it ! I've tried ! For fuck's sake, you think I haven't ? Believe me, at least about that !"

"I believe that you believe you're in love with me ! I just don't understand how it could be, and as your caregiver I'm perfectly within my rights, considering you've had a very significant brain injury-"

"-A year ago !"

"-A year's nothing, arsehole ! You know what the doctors said – it can take a bloody decade to completely recover !"

"But I'm at 92% !"

"Exactly my point ! You're not fully recovered !"

"Well then," I snarl, livid, before I can stop myself, "you'd better get in on it now, then, huh ? Before the old straight Tony fills up that available 8%, and kicks you away from his dick !"

The arteries in his neck jump.

"You're disgusting ! NO one has been a better friend to you than I have ! I've cared about you enough all this time to put you first, and you KNOW it, so don't you DARE imply that I ever have or ever would take advantage ! !"

Fuck. Fuck, he's so right. Christ, why did I say it ? !

We stare, the both of us red faced and shaking from the emotional exchange. God, I'm just cringing over what I said. I want to fall to his feet, over everything – the indisputable purity of his intentions – which were never, ever in question ... for fucking healing me, last night - which I fucking owe him my life for ! - for his almost annoyingly unwavering devotion and companionship in general, when I can't even say myself that I've deserved it, as evidenced by this very conversation.

"I'm sorry", I blurt. "I'm a total cunt. I take it back. I didn't mean it, that last thing. I'm just upset."

We sit, evaluating the other's face, unsure, each of us, where this is going.

Slowly, too slowly for my liking, an idea is carefully wending it's way through my brain, bypassing the damaged bits, and by the time it arrives, I'm pretty sure it's The Answer.

That ... this argument, for both of us, has actually been about something rather small and base, and in fact, ridiculously easy to overcome. Not about each of us disbelieving the other, not about rejection, even, but, simply, fear. That he's as scared as I am about the prospect of coupling up, and really ... why shouldn't he be, if he feels even a fraction of the terror I'm feeling, of actually diving in here, full bore, of spilling your soul and meshing yourself with somebody else - even more than we already have - all while knowing that the risk is there, however small, that the weaker of the two brains could, in fact, do a sudden, reverse back flip ...

Can I know myself that this won't happen ?

Scanning the rickety grey matter ...

Truthfully ? No.

But then ... my brain's not exactly been my best ally the last year, has it ? So ... maybe it's time I bypassed it ... switched allegiances, to, indeed, that other organ ... let it lead me around for a change.

No, not that one, arsehole. The one mid-way between, faithfully pushing the blood through my veins in a steady, nervous rhythm ... the only one that can rightfully be blamed for what is, in truth, the very happy mess that Maxxie and I find ourselves in.

Sigh. So it's true, then:

Love is a piano

dropped from a four storey window

.

"Max," he says, speaking softly and crouching to look up at me with those warm, intelligent eyes, "please, I'm begging you to trust me on this. I've frigging vetted myself already – put myself through the bloody ringer. I didn't mean for it to happen. Honestly, I didn't want it to happen, especially at first – it scared me to pieces. Fuck, I'm still scared out of my wits. But here it is. I can stop it like I can stop a train: I really do love you – in all honesty, I'm sort of madly in love with you, if that doesn't freak you out too bad."

Holy mother of god. How on earth to maintain composure ?

"And y'know what ?" he continues, "I'm not sorry about it, I swear, no matter what comes of this. But ... if it's not something you see happening – you and me – if it's too risky or whatever, I mean, you've got way more experience with this stuff than me; if you honestly think it's best we back away from it, then we will. We're really good at being friends, Max. We can do it, even if it'll maybe be awkward. Cuz, I mean, truth is, it's not like I'd be any prize, as a boyfriend; I know I'm an arsehole a lot of the time. And it's not even like I can guarantee you I'm always gonna feel this way, even though I've felt it consistently for 3 solid months, now. Fuck, I don't even remember what it felt like, before." He smiles, open and honest, and god, those eyes are on full beam again, the blue bright and glowing, almost hard to look into ... "I guess I sorta haven't been able to see past you" ...

And it's too much, a pin to my heart, a sweet sting piercing the swelling there. The water shoots to my eyes and I grab him and throw my arms around, almost knocking him to the floor in the process.

"I love you so much, Tony. I believe you; I have all along. I was just trying to protect you, to give you an out. I don't want us to be just friends. I love you too much for that, way too much to ask you to lie, to pretend and play games. I don't want that. I want you."

We hold each other a long while, and it's, just ... god, immaculate, this moment, incredibly beautiful and poignant, like nothing I've ever experienced. I can feel his heart banging inside his chest, and wonder if he can feel mine.

"It's scary though, huh ?" He says.

I nod.

"Ya," I sniffle, "But that's okay."

"Ya?," he says, sounding unconvinced.

"Ya, cuz," I continue, "it feels totally right, in my heart."

"Shit." He nods. "Mine too. Ya, totally." And after a beat: "S'weird, isn't it ?"

I laugh, feeling the tension of the morning lift.

"Yes. Slightly."

"Phew. Well shit, we got all that outta the way, then," he laughs.

"Yes," I laugh with him. "Just that one small thing."

We part, and look at each other, and I'm moved to see that his eyes have watered, too.

"So would it be unromantic, then," he asks, taking my hand, "or anticlimactic or whatever, if we sat down right now and ate ? And planned out our day together in Brighton ?"

God. Absolutely breathtaking, the sound of it; ridiculously romantic. And he doesn't even realize.

I kiss him once, pull back, and tenderly caress his face.

"No. Not at all, Tone. Believe me. The opposite."

.

Author's note:

Re the two things Tony quotes from:

"Love is a frightening way to fall", is copyright circa 2002, Eddie Vedder's live rendition of his incredible song "Longing to Belong" (tragically and inexplicably, he's altered this lyric, and significantly weakened it imo, in his just-released version of the song)

"Love is a piano dropped from a four storey window", is copyright 1998 from the great Ani DiFranco, from her song "Two Little Girls" off her album "Little Plastic Castles"

PS:

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