‘Sorry.’ He couldn’t look Rave in the eye.

‘Just look at me.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

Rave was standing there in a long T-shirt and boxer shorts. Jeremy could see the contour of his chest and arms. His strong legs were on show. There was only a thin piece of fabric between Jeremy and Rave’s dick. He needed to get out of there but the relentless rain kept battering the roof, like an endless drumroll.

‘Just back off, Rave, please.’

Rave grew angry. ‘I’m not gonna do anything to you.’

‘I just need some space.’

‘From me.’

‘Please, Rave.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t say.’ How did we get here?

‘I’m asking why. Tell me,’ Rave said, as though he was afraid of something.

‘It’s not about you!’ Jeremy shouted. ‘Not everything is about you.’

He was crying now and Rave stepped back. ‘I’m sorry.’ He seemed relieved, but curious too.

Jeremy was so raw and so scared he just didn’t know what to do.

Rave

Jeremy was sobbing, bent over in a heap. Rave had never seen him cry like that, not even when he was injured on the playing field or after his father had disappeared. He was convulsing, exuding the kind of pain and loneliness that Rave knew all too well. He didn’t think, he just took Jeremy in his arms and hugged him tight the way he longed to be hugged. ‘It’s OK, Beany. Whatever it is, it’s OK.’

‘It’s not OK,’ Jeremy whispered, as he wept on his best friend’s shoulder. ‘It’s never gonna be OK.’

‘Why, Beany?’

‘Because I love you.’ Jeremy broke down in grinding sobs. Rave pulled away and looked at him, his beautiful face awash with tears, and Jeremy stared into his best friend’s grey eyes and Rave’s lips parted and Jeremy leaned in and they kissed, at first a soft, gentle kiss, which became more urgent until they were both holding each other by the back of the hair pushing into one another and it felt, good, right, natural, and such a relief. It was the best kiss Rave had ever had. Their hands searched and found each other’s backs and chests, arms, and then Jeremy touched Rave, there in that place, and he just needed a second, he wasn’t ready for it, and in his head his mother’s voice shouted the words, ‘Dirty boy, homo, poofter, faggot, fruit, fudge-packer!’