Because we hit the 300 review mark and it's time for a bit of long-overdue kraken poking.

(seriously guys, amazing, I wake up to find people are adding this as a favourite almost ever morning, so thank you)

WARNING: Offensive language and HANKY PANKY (boys will be boys)

Left Foot Fowl

The school bell rang in the distance.

"Right, boys!" bellowed their balding games master. "Hit the showers!"

Artemis was clasping his knees, struggling to get his breath back. The rest of his classmates trudged past him, their faces flushed, hair damp from sweat, but grinning and only slightly panting.

Bastards, thought Artemis as his throat burned.

"Fowl!" yelled the games master, "seeing as you're so keen to stay on pitch you can fetch all the balls in." He tossed a large net down onto the grass.

Artemis blanched. "But, sir–"

"No buts! Get a move on."

Artemis glared after him for a moment before lashing out angrily at a daisy patch. Another layer of mud was added to the already crusted toes of his football boots.

"Yeah, get a move on, Left Foot!" shouted a blonde boy in the distant, walking backwards up the pitch.

"Yeah!" crowed his pinch-faced friend, "wouldn't want to be late for old Professor Higgins, would ya?"

Another boy started thrusting his hips at something invisible in mid-air and the rest of his retreating classmates howled with laughter.

They've just forgotten, thought Artemis. They've just forgotten what happened to the last boy who called me that name.

"Oi, Left Foot!"

"My name," spat Artemis, turning towards the voice, "is Artemis."

Adam Levesson was swaggering towards him, that infamous, stupid, lopsided smirk plastered across his fatuous face. The girls in St Margaret's found it faint-inducing, but Artemis thought it made him look like a toddler pleased about fouling his own draws.

"Yeah, Left Foot, I know it is."

Adam brushed back his long fringe only for it to fall straight back into place.

Oh Jesus, thought Artemis.

"Don't you have something better to be doing?" he snapped, bending to pick up a ball. "Throwing your own faeces? Playing with yourself? The usual things apes do."

"I'd rather be playing with you."

"Ha! Believe me; your game is woefully underdeveloped."

"That depends. Which game are we playing?"

Artemis straightened, holding the ball to his hip.

"What do you want, Levesson?" he asked bluntly. "We have spoken barely three words to each other in two years and frankly I was content to leave our relationship at that."

Adam walked a few steps closer. "Left Foot Fowl."

"I warn you. Do not–"

"But it's the truth, isn't it? You are…" Adam tipped his head to the side. "Y'know."

A face flashed in Artemis's mind, floppy haired, freckled and young: Jareth McClarent, heir to the once flourishing McClarent hotel chain.

"Go back to campus," he said warily, grabbing another ball and pushing it into the bag. "Sir will be missing you."

"I know what Jareth did."

"Do you?" replied the Fowl heir, as if Adam had told him he liked two sugars in his tea.

"He was just freaking out. He was just lashing out at... at what he did. He called you Left Foot but… but nobody got it."

"Oh, some people gotit," said Artemis assuredly, "it did not stay his private little joke for long. But then he didn't get to laugh long, did he?" He snorted mirthlessly. "Go back to the changing rooms, Levesson. Unless you have something else you wish to stammer at me?"

Adam swallowed. "I just… well…" The brown haired boy suddenly looked impossibly awkward.

Some tiny little voice at the back of Artemis's head was telling him to let this bumbling child of a classmate off the hook… but he was now so full of heat, of resentment.

"So how did you finally work it out?" he asked suddenly, straightening and noticing for the first time that Adam Levesson's eyes were the colour of oak leaves in spring. "Did Jareth tell you? If so, that was highly unsubtle of him."

"He's my cousin's friend," muttered Adam. "He told me about… about a bet."

"Oh that one," said Artemis, nodding. "Yes, that is the most popular version. He had a wager with his friends that he could get fairy boy Fowl, infamous undercover poofter,to kiss him at the summer fete – and he did, proving forever that Artemis Fowl was indeed a dirty left footer. Ingenious, masterful…"

"And… and the fight..."

"Hmm. Jareth and I argued, but in the summer heat and the rush of testosterone, I just couldn't keep my hands off him! I caught him off-balanced and stole a kiss..."

"Both lies," said Adam.

"Certainly. But ones that aren't that difficult to swallow if you're a teenaged boarding-school boy starved for entertainment and intrigue."

Artemis smiled tightly. Adam didn't.

"Here," said the Fowl heir, pointing at a ball beside Adam's feet, disliking the way the teenager was looking at him. "Pass that to me."

Adam did as he told, picking up the ball and walking closer.

"He kissed you," said the seventeen-year-old, pushing the ball in to join its brothers, "didn't he? Not the other way around."

The face flashed in Artemis's mind again, this time much closer.

"Here," whispered Jareth, his breath uneven, "quick, get down."

Artemis opened his mouth. "Why–?"

"Hush!"

A finger was pressed to Artemis's lips. Jareth's head was turned away, straining to listen, to hear whether they had been pursued… Beside him, Artemis was desperately trying to figure out what was happening to him. He was giddy, jittery, charged with some kind of strange, hectic energy. The sight of the back of Jareth's curly-haired head was making him feel drunk, invincible. He was crouched behind a pinstriped circus tent with Jareth McClarent. Jareth McClarent, who all day had been mocking him, laughing at him, teasing him, goading him, knocking him, pushing him, pulling him roughly towards the deserted space behind the festival marquee…

"There's no-one coming," whispered Jareth, his spare hand clutching to a support rope. "I think we're safe. I think–"

Artemis pushed his tongue through his lips. It was an instinctive move, reckless, and Artemis didn't flinch when Jareth wrenched his fingers back, turned to stare at him with wide, lamp-like, brown eyes.

"What are–?"

Artemis pressed his own fingers quickly against Jareth's lips.

Jareth swallowed, and Artemis watched cold shock transform into something completely other in the older boy's eyes. Slowly, still looking at Artemis, Jareth opened his mouth, and Artemis drew a sharp breath.

Somewhere beyond the skin of the marquee, stalls were selling ginger beer; they were selling drizzle cakes and wooden children's toys; crocheted baby shoes and tickets for the raffle. There were a hundred different people all chattering and laughing, fighting and bustling, clamouring and giggling in the rare summer heat. The games tables were full of players, the gaelic teams clacking their sticks together on the way to the green. The folk band was drumming from the centre pavilion, their lone flute trilling, a scratchy viola keeping their many dancers dancing. For Artemis they no longer existed. At that moment there was nothing but the dust, his ridiculous heart rate, and Jareth McClarent: tall, impossible, beautiful Jareth McClarent.

Jareth's fingers rose and stroked against Artemis's hand, teased Artemis's fingers away from his mouth until they were laced in his. Their giddiness was half gone now, replaced by something deeper, something far more insistent. Artemis raised his free hand to Jareth's face. He hesitated a moment, his expression for once open, both nervous and fascinated, before brushing aside a sheaf of brown curls. They felt far softer than he thought they would.

Artemis's heart was now beating so hard, he swore that Jareth must be able to see its jump through the skin of his neck. His suspicions were almost confirmed as brown eyes dipped their gaze to his throat...

They stared at each other.

Every instinct was screaming inside of him but Jareth remained rooted to the spot. Artemis licked his lips, his fingers gripping the other boy's convulsively… and then he darted forward, praying to God that for once in his life he could hit a static target...

He could. But after barely a second's contact he had pulled back again.

Artemis caught a glimpse of a pair of wide brown eyes before Jareth's fingers were gripping in his hair and lips, greedy and desperate, collided once more against his own.

Jareth's kiss was clumsy, unpractised, reminding Artemis of the lower school St Bartleby's boys learning folk dances during Michaelmas half; they too were without rhythm, without expertise; Jareth was a hormone-addled mangle of nerves and longing and his kiss was pure innocence, just a worried, juvenile experiment... until suddenly it wasn't.

Artemis felt a sharp tugging at his sleeve and was tipped sideways into the dust. Then Jareth was on top of him, straddling his hips with strong, football-muscled legs. He had barely a moment to think of his dust-ruined jacket before Jareth was kissing him again, anchoring himself to him by gripping onto the lapels of Artemis's blazer. Artemis closed his eyes, finding he no longer cared about the stones digging into his spine and shoulders, or the grit rubbing into his hair. He raised his hands to hold Jareth to him and didn't notice as the older boy eked his tie from the collar of his school shirt and pulled open the first of his top buttons. It came as a shock, therefore, when Jareth's mouth abruptly left Artemis's and began to kiss and suck at the exposed skin of the younger teenager's neck. Artemis shuddered and made a noise he would never have made among polite company. Something snapped inside him, and with strength Artemis hadn't known he possessed, he pushed against Jareth until he was the one on his back in the dust and Artemis was hovering above him, his mismatched eyes glinting like kyanite.

Then something changed. Jareth stared up at him, his brow creasing inwards, his mouth a confused, puckered 'o'. He uttered something, somewhere between a grunt and a cry, and suddenly his hands were slamming against Artemis's chest. The Fowl heir was sent sprawling in the dust and Jareth was back on his feet.

"What were you doing?" demanded Jareth, red faced and dishevelled.

Artemis, for once in his life, was completely nonplussed.

"What do you mean?" he gasped. "You know exactly what we were doing!"

"You doing!" corrected Jareth savagely. "What were you doing? You… you… pervert!"

This brought Artemis cruelly back to Earth. He propped himself up on his elbows and squinted incredulously at Jareth.

"You are going to deny this?" he asked, stunned at the conclusion his brain had come to. "You are… you are going to refute your own, quite evident, sexuality and project it onto me?"

Jareth's chest was heaving with emotion.

"You… you came onto me. You kissed me."

"There was a mutual attraction," said Artemis angrily. "We kissed each other."

"No. No, you came onto me!"

Artemis almost laughed. "You were the one to drag me to this bloody spot in the first place!"

"Hey! There you are!" A lanky boy Artemis recognised from the lower sixth bounded around the tent canopy and clapped Jareth on the shoulders. He was grinning, his brown hair flopping into his eyes. "Been looking everywhere for you, Jar!"

Jareth was still staring at Artemis propped up on the ground.

"Have I interrupted something?" joked Adam Levesson's cousin. "Haven't caught you two snogging, have I?"

"No," spat Jareth, a little too abruptly.

Artemis suppressed a scornful glance at his former partner and got to his feet.

"The opposite actually," he said, trying to keep his voice level, "we were fighting."

The sixth former scoffed. "Fighting? You can't even kick a football, Fowl. What are you doing picking fights with McClaren?"

The giddiness of earlier was well and truly vanished. Artemis's face was hot and prickly: he suddenly felt like a prize turkey, plucked and stuffed.

"I have no idea," he said brazenly.

"Come on," ordered the boy, pushing at his friend's back, "you've had your fun with freaky Fowl here. Let's go watch the girls' Gaelic."

"Aye," said Jareth, almost to himself, "yeah, I'm with you."

The taller boy looped an arm about his shoulder and swivelled his friend away from Artemis. "Seriously, what were you doing with Artemis Fowl?"

"We had… a disagreement."

"About what?"

"Football."

"Football?" The other boy snorted. "But Fowl knows nothing about football. He's got two left feet."

"Yeah… Left Foot Fowl."

Artemis jerked at the sound of their cruel laughter, high and clear as church bells, and a heat, shameful and damning, pooled in the pit of his stomach.

"Yeah," laughed Jareth, "in more ways than one if you catch my drift…"

"Seriously?"

"Oh yeah." Jareth's voice was as confident and bawdy as it had been before he had pulled Artemis behind the marquee. "I wasn't sure whether he was gonna smack me or kiss me…"

Artemis shoved the last ball in the bag and pulled the drawstring closed.

"He was such a dick," said Adam lowly.

Artemis sighed. He looked up at the brown-haired boy.

"He was a little boy frightened and in denial."

"You pitied him."

"I did. To an extent."

"Until the hotel thing."

"Until the hotel thing."

Adam's eyes narrowed. He pushed back that infamous fringe one more time and cocked his head to the side.

"Well," he said, in what Artemis's supposed was meant to be a husky and appealing voice, "I'd just like to tell you that I am not a little boy…"

"You are seventeen," said Artemis flatly.

"Yeah. And so are you."

"Only technically."

The Fowl heir took satisfaction from the confused expression that flashed briefly across Adam's face before picking up the bag of balls and hefting them over his shoulder. They weren't particularly heavy, just cumbersome and awkward. Adam grabbed a handful of netting from the bottom and pulled until the two teenagers were carrying the balls easily between them.

"I can see you're an inexperienced ball handler," said the brown-haired boy casually, "but don't worry, I can teach you the ways."

It was Artemis's turn to be taken off guard.

"Excuse me?"

"Ball handling," repeated Adam, unabashed. "Unless you'd prefer we make another 'bet'?" He pulled the net around, forcing Artemis to deviate slightly from his path. "I bet I'm a better kiss than Jareth McClaren."

"Do you now?" Artemis yanked the net back and returned them to the track.

"Definitely. Or, y'know, we could do the fight thing." Adam's expression suddenly became deathly serious. "Skin on skin… stripped to the waist…"

Artemis tried to glare at him but couldn't quite manage it.

"Do I detect a smile?" demanded Adam, apparently aghast. "Did I actually make Artemis Fowl laugh?"

"At you," confirmed Artemis, tugging the net as Adam almost pulled them off course again.

"You know," continued Adam, "I once heard Jareth telling someone he'd head butted a horse?"

Artemis did laugh then. "Did he say why?"

"No. I think he just likes to challenge himself sometimes."

Artemis looked away but Adam caught the look, dropping his end of the ball bag. He extended a hand towards Artemis.

"Hello," he said, his brown eyes twinkling, "I'm Adam Levesson. Pleased to meet your acquaintance."

Artemis stared at the hand a moment as if not quite sure what to do with it.

"Artemis Fowl the Second," he said finally, folding it in his own. "Likewise, I'm sure."

They stood like that for a moment, their hands linked tightly between them. Then Adam swallowed and slipped his back.

"Now, now," he said softly. "I like to take my dates for a bite to eat before dragging them off behind festival marquees."

Artemis looked up.

"Where?" he asked.

"The Swaddle Inn."

"Time?"

"Eight o'clock?"

"Alright."

Adam blinked. "What? You–? Oh. And you're okay with the Swaddle?"

"Yes," replied Artemis. "Certainly it's a little common for my usual tastes but you're right, we won't get any fuss in there and it's unlikely any of the St Bart's boys would walk in on us."

"But I didn't say any of–"

"You didn't have to."

Adam tutted, touching his fingers briefly to his temple. "Genius," he said, "right."

Artemis gave a sort of 'what can ya do?' shrug and it was Adam's turn to laugh.

"I'll see you at eight then," he said, walking backwards away from Artemis up the pitch.

"You aren't going to help me with these?" demanded Artemis.

"Nope! I prefer to watch you struggle manfully from over here."

The Fowl heir scowled.

"And don't wear a suit!" called Adam, when he was practically back at the school walls.

"I'll wear whatever I want to!" yelled back Artemis.

"Then so shall I!"

Eight o'clock came at The Swaddle Inn and Artemis stepped out of the Bentley immaculately dressed, as always, in a bespoke Canali evening suit. He straightened his French cuffs and breathed in the sharp evening air.

"I'll just be driving around," grumbled Butler from the drivers sear. "If this bloke tries to pull anything, I can be there in two minutes to maim him."

"Honestly, Butler, I doubt that will be necessary."

"But keep the offer in mind."

Artemis took another breath and squared his shoulders. He waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and Butler smiled, satisfied, as his charge pushed through the busy public house doors. He put the Bentley into gear and drove off.

A weird combination of university students and older, tie-dyed locals, occupied the pub, either sat at tables or on high stools, chattering and laughing and quaffing their various drinks. The pub was old, and the original wooden beams and bricks were exposed in the squat ceiling and walls. For what it lacked in sophistication it more than made up in character…

"Artemis!"

The teenager's head whipped around.

He spotted Adam stood out of a small wooden booth beside the fireside. The teenager's brown hair was slicked back from his face, his school football kit replaced by a tailed tuxedo complete with black cane, monocle, and silken top hat.

"Why, Left Foot," he exclaimed as the Fowl heir approached, "you've come so terribly under-dressed!"

"Sit down," ordered Artemis sharply.

"I know you're usually a sloppy dresser," continued Adam as he slid back into his seat, "but you could have at least made an effort. Just this once."

The Fowl heir shook his head, his tongue poking at a canine. "You're funny, you really are."

"Listen," said Adam, leaning closer and gazing at Artemis sympathetically. "If you're really feeling out of place, you may borrow my top hat."

Artemis sighed and forced down the twitch in his lips for the twelfth time since shaking Adam Levesson's hand six short hours ago. "Would you care for a drink?"

"I've got them here."

Adam pushed two glasses forward, one a thinly necked 'v' of fruit juices, spirits, umbrellas and straws, the other a stocky pint glass of froth-topped pitch.

"That one's yours," said Adam, "seeing as you decided to come dressed as a commoner."

Artemis shook his head one last time and finally allowed his teeth to show past his lips. He glanced at Adam's oak-leaf eyes and decided that he really didn't mind so much if Adam were the one to be calling him 'Left Foot' from now on.

"To Jareth McClarent," decided Artemis, raising his Guinness off the table with a smirk.

"To fete marquees," agreed Adam.

"To head butting horses."

"To humongous bags of balls."

A few students' heads whipped around to look towards their booth and Artemis sloshed a fifth of his drink over his cuff.

"To us," murmured Adam at a lower volume, doffing his top hat and plopping it down onto his date's head.

Artemis knocked the hat casually onto the back of his head and clinked his glass against Adam's.

"To two left feet."

There we go guys, something a little cheerier than my more recent fare! (well, the ending anyway...)

Yeah, 'Left Foot Fowl'. In the UK, a 'left footer' is slang (not used in polite company) for a gay person. This story has existed in various forms in my head since I first read that nickname in the opening chapter extract of TAC and here it finally is!

As always, all reviews are appreciated :)

P.S. Adam had a fake ID or just got served because it's a student pub (just pre-empting any anonymous, single-sentence, reviews about Irish drinking ages...)