TW: Pining, Angst, Trans Character, Mis-Gendering, Unrequited Love, possible themes or characteristics of depression

The grass is bright green and the sun is shining and the air is warm and Alex is happy. His best friend Christine is lay on the grass on her back in a pink tee and white shorts and her chestnut hair is shoulder length and flyaway. She's giggling, high pitched and happy, and it's because of Alex. He made her laugh. He continues his impromptu story, pointing with chubby fingers at the many tufts of cloud scattering like plump sheep over the blue pastures of the sky.

"Alex! Christine!" Aww. His mum's calling them in. It is lunch time, but he just wants to stay outside, to relax and make Christine laugh more.

The young girl scrabbles to sit up, knees muddy, hands scraped, shorts, once pure white, now tinged green with grass. She laughs at Alex as he try's to sit up as nimbly as she did, and she scatters a handful of green blades into his hair to prompt a grumpy reaction from him. "Hey!"

She just laughs more, grabs his arm to help him up. He doesn't mind her helping him, 'cause she plays football and climbs trees and builds with him. But she also cares and doesn't mind pink and lets him cry if he falls and cuts his knee, doesn't tell him to 'grow up' or 'be a man'. He doesn't understand what's supposed to be wrong with girls. His mum says they can multitask, and Alex thinks that's as good a reason as any to be one.

They clasp hands and run on toddling legs and giggle together, then race the last few metres. Alex's hair flops in his face and he blames losing to that. They dart inside to the table and help themselves to crisps and sandwiches, and drink orange juice because Christine says she hates fizzy drinks because the bubbles taste weird.

Alex's mum and dad sit with them, they ask Christine what she has enjoyed in school, and how karate is going for her. She answers, "Great!" in a bright voice, and with eloquence belying her age explains the intricacies of the water cycle that she read about in a book at the book fair last week, and then how she's forbidden to use any techniques outside of the dojo in an equally solemn tone.

Alex's parents just chuckle to each other, looking deeply at one another, and Alex wonders who he will love when he's older.

He sees Christine tuck her hair behind her ears, and sees she's finished her lunch, so he asks his parents if they can go back outside again. "Of course." His mother coos it with a smile. His father's already taking the plates away to the sink. "Just be careful." She tuts when she sees Christine's grass-stained shorts, but says nothing else. The girl's a force of nature.

Alex bolts through the door, runs to the football, and kicks it to Christine, who sticks her tongue out as she flicks it past him.

They play until Christine's dad drives up to get her, when the sun's dyed the sky orange like the juice they were drinking, and the clouds are edged pink. There's nothing wrong with pink. It can be very pretty.

Still, Alex is sad when she's gone, has nothing to do, so he goes back outside, nudges the ball forlornly with a foot a few times, then sits on the step until the air gets cold enough to make his arms pimple with goosebumps.

He sits down to watch television with his parents with a small, milky cup of tea.

---

It's break time, and Christine's finally drawn up the courage to play football with the boys, so Alex runs full-pelt beside her to get to the middle of the field first. Their blue jumpers are thrown onto the still dew-damp grass, the sun struggling through early morning mist that lingers around the edges of the school grounds in small, ragged strands. Some boys have marked goals with their jumpers on the white lines painted in the grass from last year's sports day.

Christine stands out with her grey skirt in the sea of black trousers. She usually wears the girl's trousers in the winter, but it's summer time and surprisingly warm, and she loves how the skirt moves when she runs.

Alex plays centre forward for his team, likes to be the leader of his group, but Christine asked him before break if she could instead, and they shook hands after spitting in their palms like adults in films, so the agreement must be honoured. They both agree that spitting in their palms was gross and they won't do it again.

Alex looks from his position, left of Christine, ready for the pass, but they're stopped by complaints from boys of the other team. They ignore the fact that she's one of the best runners in the class, because she's a girl, why's she here. Alex wants to punch him, or just tell him he's an idiot, but he knows Christine wouldn't like that.

He watches her walk forward instead. "What's wrong with girls?" She sounds so indignant. He loves it.

The boy fumbles for words, shocked. "Well. Boys are better than girls."

"Why?"

"They can do things better than girls."

"No they can't."

"Yes they can."

"You're an idiot. Anyway, I can run faster than you and I can play football. You're just worried you'll lose." The arrogance that occasionally shows through her is welling up again. Alex knows she's ashamed to have her pride pointed out to her. She's just used to being able to do things and do them well.

The boy glowers. "Fine."

Nobody says she can't play again. By the end of the year, the football game is a pretty even spread of boys and girls.

---

Christine's complained before that she wishes she could be a boy. So she could do anything she wanted and not be questioned. Alex says that's stupid. She's brilliant and clever and she's always telling him that what people think about you isn't important, so she shouldn't worry either.

She just says thank you, tone ambivalent, and looks back up to the sky to trace the shapes and patterns in the wide yawning blue.

---

They're sat in the sun on the bright green grass again, legs crossed.

It's coming up to Alex's birthday, so Christine asks him what he wants. There's something, and he whispers it to her behind a cupped hand.

She grins, clamping her hands together and fully out stretching her arms so her knuckles rest on the ground.

He makes her a crown of daisies, the little white heads like flayed pearls, and rests it on her chocolate hair.

---

For Alex's birthday, there's usually one party he has with friends, and then another one with family, just because his grandparents and many small children running about don't mix very well. His parents always allow Christine to come round for the family one anyway.

But today is his proper birthday, the twentieth of May, and he's seven and it's been brilliant - everyone said happy birthday in school, even some teachers - and now he's going to get presents from all his friends. They arrive, some early, some late. Christine's always late wherever she goes - it's usually never a problem though, just a few minutes - and she doesn't disappoint today. About ten minutes after the specified time she arrives, leaping out in jeans and a tee, embracing a relatively small, rattling box.

He smiles, it must be the thing he asked for. She meets his eyes with an equal beam, and squeals as she passes it to him. They both rush inside, as their parents talk for a few minutes before Christine's return home.

There's a barbecue outside and the smell of lightly charring meat makes their mouths water. Alex's mum's put out paper plates, all different neon colour blocks, and Alex grabs the green one for Christine and an orange one for himself. They wait in line while they talk in hushed tones about Alex's present (she's not supposed to ruin the surprise) and then seat themselves in a circle on the floor of the front room, where Alex's mum has been stringent enough to lay out a plastic mat so the necessary spillages and crumbs can be more easily disposed of.

As always, the evening passes quickly, and everyone's left, except Christine (her mum's not here yet) and so Alex opens her present, beams when he sees the familiar red and white logo. Lego. Christine wows about the features of it, the fact it's got multiple instruction sets so you can build and rebuild, the compatibility with other sets, and the cool parts.

They hear the growl of an engine, and Christine's unhappy expression matches his, but she leaves without a problem, and Alex waves her off from the front door, before turning inside. His dad helps him carry the boxes upstairs while his mum makes sure the carpet is still pristine. It is.

He has the Lego built in a short space of time, having bent his nail back painfully a few times trying to separate some pieces that he either put together mistakenly or because he just wanted to, thought it looked cool.

Knowing that tomorrow he'll be able to show it to Christine makes him feel better.

---

Christine's parents aren't stupid. Besides, Alex's mum told Christine's mum that Alex's grandmother didn't approve of what she wore to his last party (jeans and a tee), that she thought it wasn't appropriate for a formal occasion. So she arrives wearing an emerald dress with peeling silvery sandals, both of which she loves. She doesn't miss the nod of approval the old woman gives her, so she just smiles benignly. It's the only way.

Alex guides her through to the living room, where they collapse with giggles, and play with the new Lego set and everything else he received. She asks Alex what his parents got him, and they sneak upstairs so he can show the guitar, slightly smaller than a normal guitar in the body, and a dark wood. They pluck at individual strings, try to sing along, and snicker until they're called downstairs by his dad.

They kick each other's legs gently under the table to try to get the other to laugh.

---

The day's sweltering, sun streaming in a golden blaze through the windows, even with the the thin vertical blinds closed. All the windows are open, and a fan buzzes at the front of the room. The tables are set out weirdly today, because they have SATs exams. Alex can see Christine's buzzing, can barely restrain a smile. The chance to show off is buoying her mood, and even though she hates writing (sentences are too long, she can't be bothered to write things out fully) and finds maths only slightly better (she prefers to do the questions in her head, because writing the sums takes too much effort) she's looking forward to the week of tests.

Alex is just mildly amused. Not looking forward to the tests - no way, not like Christine - but seeing the difference between this girl and the one who doesn't want to do her homework because she has to write a five line paragraph, is quite funny.

He wipes his clammy hands together and winces at the dampness, rubs his hands on his trouser legs. The teacher asks them to be quiet, places a paper on each pupil's desk, and tells then to start.

The air is filled with the the scratching of pencils. He can't wait for next year, when they're allowed to use pens in creative writing.

---

Christine crows about getting the five in reading when she finds out, and when it's announced in assembly, she positively glows. It's really annoying. He got a four. Most people in the class got threes - threes were the normal mark expected for year two students. The way it was tiered, fives were what pupils in year six were getting. He got a four! His name should've been read out.

He doesn't speak to Christine for a day, because she was irritating him. It's as though she didn't realise she was doing it.

The next day Christine walks hesitantly up to him with a face white like bone and brown eyes wide, scared. She gasps that she's sorry, and clutches at the hem of her sapphire school jumper with tears gathering in her eyes. She looks like she expects to be shouted at, or worse.

Alex feels a churning in his stomach when he realises how awful he's made her feel. She doesn't mean to act like that, he knows. She's just competitive and trusts him like a brother, and she gets carried away sometimes. Alex feels sick when he tells her it's okay, just as long as she remembers next time.

And she flinches at 'next time' - realises she's done it before, and must have many times. He can see the self-loathing in a small wry twist of her lips, before they continue on as normal (except with Christine talking very little about herself at all). He wants to say something about it but never wants to remind her of the moment so she doesn't hate herself again.

---

It's the summer holidays and it's great. There's no homework, no responsibilities for school, just endless fun in a space of time that passes all too quickly.

There's ice cream and grass stains and fluffy clouds in the big blue sky, just like before, but the stories are better because the words they have are better.

Alex loves language because it allows you to say so much, not just literally. Word choice can change the meaning of something so much, and it's fascinating, just like Christine.

In school she talks to the teachers like they're other children; not disrespectful, just in how confident she is. She explains things well, and so sometimes they're able to spend more time having fun, so the rest of the class loves her.

Today they're messing with Alex's guitar, and she stares with wide brown eyes when he picks it up and starts singing. "I didn't know you could sing!" She practically squeals it.

Alex can't help smiling, cheeks heating and looking down at his hand curled around the fretboard still. He focuses on the weird numb pain in the pads of his fingers instead.

He looks back up at her happy face, decides to play one of the songs she said she really liked when her dad was driving Alex back home once. He looked up the tabs, hadn't realised how old the song was.

He strums now, uneven as he tries to recall and sing, and he expects her to join in, but she just smiles softly, face downturned as she picks at her nails, embarrassed.

"Why didn't you sing along?" She looks up in shock at the question, cocoa-powder eyes wide.

"I can't. Sing, that is." It's said bluntly, with unquestionable honesty.

"Says who."

"Everyone in my family." Her mum, her dad, her sister. Oh. She's not going to cave then.

He puts down the guitar.

---

When school begins again, they're informed that a man from Spain is coming over to teach them Spanish. Alex can't wait, but Christine seems hesitant.

She loves talking so much, why wouldn't she want to know how to do it in more languages to more people?

"I'm scared..." She admits it and looks ashamed, tugs down the sleeves of her cobalt jumper and looks down at her feet. Why? Why would she be scared? "It's stupid. I'd rather not be able to speak any Spanish at all than be unable to express myself properly. I'm scared that I might understand someone and not be able to reply, and embarrass myself."

"They'd understand. They'd be thrilled you tried."

"It has to be perfect or not at all. Otherwise, I will embarrass myself." Her hooded eyes bore in to his, as though trying to convey her thoughts through eye contact, but Alex doesn't get it.

She looks down, eyes squeezed shut and brows pulling down. Even when Alex reassures her she never could, she laughs, hollow.

---

A couple years later and they leave primary school and move to secondary school.

Alex hates it. He can't spend the amount of time that he wants to spend with Christine. Otherwise people mock him. They always mock Christine. Never to her face, just behind her back; they leave her out and laugh when she speaks in class.

She hardly talks about herself, anymore, not her grades, not the things she's learnt. If someone ever compliments a drawing she does in art or a composition she makes in music, she just laughs it off.

If someone dares compliment her, she either sneers at them, and tears them up in the off chance she gets to talk to Smith in class, or flatly denies it, brooks no argument, and within her mind, completely deconstructs her whole self, her actions and personality, to prove the comment wrong.

He knows this because he sees that look in her eyes.

Her hair's shoulder length and dull, flat. Her eyes are flinty, and she barely reacts to things people say in order to keep the rest of her soul from being torn to tatters. She never puts her hand up in class and she never talks back to anyone when they talk behind her back. Just takes it deep inside - seems to welcome the negativity - as proof that she's less than deserving.

She has friends; Alex recognises the need for moths to circle close to flames - you can't deny the gravity of a person - and she does appreciate them, loves them, but thinks herself terrible, that she's using them.

The only reason he knows that is because she told him, one day. She refuses to cry, he's known that his whole life, even though she told him it's nothing to be ashamed of, but she cried then, sobs wracking her whole body as she clutched him in a constrictive embrace. Each shuddering gasp shakes him, both physically, and mentally. His brain spins to think of the strongest person he knows crying like that, hating herself.

He knows everything because she spat the words like razor blades from her tongue, with a perverse satisfaction of the fact that saying them made them real, made them even stronger, because saying is admitting.

The last thing she says to him that day, while viciously wiping tears from her reddened eyes and cheeks with rough swipes, is that she should be a boy, so she wouldn't have to deal with this.

Alex just lets her walk away.

---

The next time Alex sees Christine, they go out to the cinema. It's a half term holiday, and some superhero flick is playing, so they don't need to think, just absorb and eat. When Alex glances over, to check she's alright - not in a patronising way, not about the film, just to check how she's feeling in general with her guard down - the bright light from the screen catches her eyelashes and throws her cheekbones into high relief. Her eyebrows are furrowed slightly in focus.

Alex has never really looked at her like this. It feels wrong. He hadn't realised before, with the mask of childhood she usually has in his mind. She can be pretty.

Obviously he's stared too long; her head turns slowly towards him, eyes focussed on the screen till the last second, and when her eyes meet his, he freezes in his seat with the power of the scrutiny there, dark eyes searching with curiosity and not a little trepidation.

She holds his vision for too long, too long; he's been caught - his blood chills - he's messed this whole thing up because he was stupid stupid stupid-

She blanches like she's read his mind, then coughs, shifts in her seat, tries to act casual as she feigns relaxation, moving away so that no part of her touches him.

Alex has to admit that hurts.

---

Alex sees Christine the next day they're at school, a week after the cinema trip, and they talk a bit about the film. Her jumper seems ill-fitting, baggy; hanging off her shoulders, the sleeves reaching past her wrists, and the material rucking around her waist unflatteringly.

He worries that she's losing weight, not eating properly, and her hollow cheeks might bear a testament to that, but he doesn't want to say anything, to invite the chill atmosphere from the day-out back.

She sees her friends going past and bids him a good day. He waves, a meek move of one hand, but she doesn't see.

---

He steps outside, hoists himself bodily up to the top of a red brick wall, and perches there for some time.

The sun's muted by thick layers of cloud, and the wind is wild as it dashes dead leaves against cars and kerbs. He shivers as his hoodie and tee do nothing to repel the bitter breaths funnelled past him. His earphones are in, quality crappy, but he can keep them under the hat he has pulled over his ears.

He's just... motionless. Doesn't have anything to do, wants something to do, but nothing seems suitable. It's a weird melancholy he feels sometimes.

Maudlin, he thinks.

A particularly mournful song comes on, not one he'd ever say he liked, but it's pining and solemn enough to encompass how he feels.

He's not really sure he knows who he is anymore. As a child everything seemed so certain. But now his wants and needs are just. Not what he thought of. Not what he expected.

He feels like he's at a crossroads. But he doesn't know which way he should go because he doesn't know which each path brings. And he hates it.

He sits with his back straight and his head tipped back so his throat's bared, and listens to the same song on repeat until he's chilled to the bone, jaw tight and whole skeleton shaking with tremors.

---

A couple of months later, when the end of year exams are about to start, Christine has her hair chopped short, side fringe overlapping part of her forehead, the strands now shinier. He's seen her a few times outside of school, but only in passing; they've met at the supermarket, or walking through town.

Their meetings haven't been intentional, and the excuse of exams and revision are a welcome relief. Alex never thought he'd be relieved not to be obliged to see her.

There's something different in her walk, a straighter spine, maybe? She's getting tall for her age, but Alex's growth spurt has yet to take place - both his parents are tall, it's likely he'll be, too.

They used to make bets on who would be taller.

---

A couple of years later, and school gets better. Most people have matured past calling girls who don't date frigid, past calling boys who talk to girls for non-romantic reasons gay. It's so much better, for the sheer relief he feels when he sees Christine happier, wry smiles curling at her lips again, but she still never talks happily about her achievements, proudly about her knowledge.

This is the year Ross Hornby arrives.

It's no secret from the beginning that he's gay. He says it clearly and concisely, and then explains that he is in no way attracted to the any of the stupid fuckers in the class (though in cleaner words), in fact finds them repulsive. Alex is quietly amused by them oscillating between being relieved that's the case, and being offended that anyone dare say they're not attractive to someone. (The fact they haven't realised that yet is incredible.)

Alex isn't in many of the newcomer's classes, but any chance they've had to talk, he's seemed nice, and they have a mutual appreciation for video games, so they have something to talk about.

Alex appreciates his laid back attitude, his lack of need to apologise for who he is. It's relieving, to be around someone so steadfast and calm. He wishes that Christine might be friends with Ross, that they might all be friends, and reinforce the status quo of the previous years, but with the addition of Ross.

He'd give anything to get those years back.

---

He does become good friend with Ross. Really good friends. Every so often, there's a laughing utterance from the back of the classroom about them. He ignores it, maturity bringing a strength of spirit that's only bolstered by Ross's continued presence.

He feels like he's drifting apart from Christine - really, he admits that he has been for years. She's more of an acquaintance now, someone he passes and greets, but says little else. There's the odd moment where they start talking properly again, and he thinks maybe, maybe, but their distance inevitably stabilises, ions of the same charge repelling, and they return to talking little.

He's glad. He might say something embarrassing otherwise.

---

Ross is almost as tall as him - and Alex is tall - but has an enviable grace with which he seems to instinctively carry himself.

Alex is more bulky, haphazard, his limbs gangling. He watches Ross move sometimes, when they're walking, tries to emulate the even strides, but it's no use.

They play video games together, some weekends, and Alex curses consoles when they play at Ross's, and Ross mocks his keyboard and mouse sensibilities when they're at his.

Sometimes, Alex wonders who Ross has kissed. Not in that way. He tries to justify it to himself merely as curiosity; he's never heard him talk about anyone, seen him be anything more than friendly to other people.

Alex is just curious, is all.

He's brought from his whirling reverie by Ross throwing the remote down in a brief flash of anger as their team loses, and spins to Alex, all the while spitting profanities at the screen.

Alex smiles at that, setting it aside in a fond memory even with the excessive language.

---

"Ross, you know Christine, right?" They're lay outside, prostrate with arms pressed together on the grass, sunset fallen dusky hours ago. There's no blue now, just black, and instead of tufts of cloud, there are glimmering points of light.

Ross shifts beside him, and the warmth momentarily leaves, before returning, but not quite in the same place as before, part of him left to cool, while another is warmed anew. His lips twist wryly. Story of his life, really.

Ross hums idly, noncommittally.

Alex continues, caught in memories of before, voice softened. "Did you know she was my best friend? For years. And now..."

He hears the soft, scratchy fricatives of Ross's hair moving across grass as he turns his head, and they're so close that in the still air, with the absence of any breeze, he feels the dark haired man's breaths fanning on his face and neck. He speaks carefully. "'m sorry, mate."

Smith huffs a laugh, slightly bitter, turns to the other man. Looks over his face and takes in his features, the genuineness written there. He's frozen by those oversaturated blue eyes, feels caught when he realises how long he's been staring. Clears his throat and turns away to roll up to seated.

"'s gettin' cold, mate. Let's go." He doesn't look back at Ross until he's stood beside him. He smiles, tentatively, and Ross meets his look with a small curl to his lips.

---

Every so often, he listens to that song again. Thinks of they lyrics and what they mean. Usually when the weather matches his mood in a poetic burst of pathetic fallacy. See, he learnt something from English.

He thinks of Christine, in all her chaotic glory, her pretty whiskey eyes and matching hair that's just as thick and untameable as it was when she was younger. Having it cut seems to have made it mildly controllable. She's fast and smart and wise beyond her years. Passionate and arrogant and amazingly encouraging to everyone but herself.

She's like the wind, or she was when they were younger, when they still properly talked. He wonders if she thinks of him at all. If she wonders what happened, like he does.

He thinks about Ross, too. Quiet and understated and strong. He cares so much, all in the softening of his brows and the creasing around his eyes, and he wonders, he truly does, when he looks at Ross and sees the vulnerability there. He's magnetic in his shameless dedication to bettering himself and others through soft-spoken words and meaningful gestures and touches.

If Christine is the wind, then Ross is the tree, and Alex is the leaves between them, their two personalities a constant tear at his own. He can't more be with one than the other for the pain he feels for the other.

---

Alex has seen Christine talking to Ross in school a few times, knew they were becoming friendly, but hadn't realised just how quick it had happened.

He sees them walking hand-in-hand and follows them, confused, brain whirling and light-headed; he feels vertigo and has to steady himself on a doorframe leading to the music department, when he sees Ross dip his head down to peck her on the lips, and Alex has no idea what's happening, thoughts swirling and vision going strange and washed out because of how long he stares, colours losing vividness. His ears don't quite ring, he just doesn't register the sounds of chatter and laughter around him.

But.

What? Isn't Ross... No that doesn't matter, Ross can kiss who he likes...

He doesn't properly register when the pair notice him for a second or two, Ross turning panicked and with hands up and palms outspread as though he's worried Alex would punch him. As though Alex might want to hurt him. His stomach clenches at that, he feels sick again. It's like the thing with Christine in primary school all over again, but worse. They both look so scared.

He backs away, not because he's disgusted at them, but himself. What's he said or done that might make them react to him like he'd hate them?

He faintly registers raised voices, syllables that sound like his name being called, or that somebody is trying to explain, but he can't hear them. All he can hear is his blood rushing and he thinks he might faint. He needs to get away now, to think about this.

He runs home so fast he hears the wind.

---

He perches on his wall for a good few hours, that one song that's come to mean so much to him playing on repeat, as usual.

The sky progresses from azure to coal. The clouds fan out like brushstrokes, then begin to melt away, feathery, in the strong twilight beams breaching the horizon, and the clouds are edged pink. There's nothing wrong with pink. It can be very pretty.

The dusk morphs to night with a final swirl of shadowed cloak, and Alex finally lowers himself from the wall, breaths just beginning to coalesce in the air around him to billowing gossamer shrouds.

He thinks he's come to terms with what's happened, and he's fine with it. He's not a selfish man, he doesn't think. He should hold no sway over their decisions anyway.

Christine's special. If Alex had to date any girl, and he was gay, he's pretty sure he'd choose her anyway.

He thinks back to what she's said over the years, how she's acted, especially when she was younger. She'd make a great boy. Alex huffs a laugh to himself, a bitter one, really.

He wonders where his life went so weird.

---

It's a couple of days later when Ross talks to him again. Christine has just looked at him with flickering eyes for a few seconds, before quickly walking away. It hurts.

Ross looks him deep in the eyes, blue meeting blue, and Alex feels pinned with the strength of that gaze. Ross must ascertain that Alex isn't going to lash out - and I never would, why don't you see that - so he steps forward, voice hushed. "Look mate, me 'n' Chris were going to tell you sooner, but-"

"Chris?" He tries to achieve a deadpan tone, but it sounds more blunt and doubtful than what he intended.

"Well... Yeah. You didn't think it was just me who decided to keep this from you, just until we were ready, did you?" Ross winces slightly at the phrasing, just as Alex's chest twinges with pain again. Ross seems to have misunderstood what exactly Alex was questioning, but he doesn't want to start a fight. He wants them to feel safe around him.

Needs them to.

He nods, tries to smile. It feels like his skin's stretched into a crude, rictus imitation, but Ross seems encouraged enough by it.

The shorter man pats him on the shoulder and walks away.

---

He stays late after school that same day to finish some coursework, and most hallways he's traversed have been empty, or had a few stragglers who nod to him in passing. He turns a corner, to get to his locker, and hears the slapping of flitting feet behind him, he whirls, worried, and Christine is there, short hair ruffled from her sprint and made slightly breathless, but smiling, a daft, goofy smile.

He doesn't understand.

"Ross explained?"

He nods.

"And you're okay with us?"

He almost scoffs, but censors himself, and nods again.

Her grin's like a nuclear payload's just been delivered, bright and strong - and at this point, practically unnatural. Alex would also joke about it being man-made... but that's too prickish, even for him.

She grabs both of his upper arms in tight clasps, gives him a slight shake, then darts off past him.

Alex just stays where he was, feeling the eddies of her passage die down, staring at one point on a locker, a little nick in the gaudy red revealing steel, and just stands.

A little while later, he shakes himself from whatever place buried in memories he was in, and grabs the rest of his books to stuff in his bag, before heading home.

There's a spring back in his step that's been lacking for a long time.

---

Alex sits on his wall again, same song playing, but somehow, it's not plaintive anymore - not with the strange twist in his mood, the happiness welling up beneath his sternum - but hopeful and honest.

It's their song. He smiles, and closes his eyes as he breathes in the petrichor scent, earthy brown in his mind, as the slightly humid air cocoons him.

And like that, his brain solves it. The puzzle he didn't even know existed. It makes so much sense now. Oh shit. Shit shit shit, he's such an insensitive, stupid bastard and he really needs to talk to Christine - no, Chris! - and Ross right now.

He scrambles off the sun warmed brick, palms and shins smarting with little grazes imparted by the discerning construction at his poorly executed dismount.

He runs to his parents, says he'll be out, and dashes away. He calls Ross, to check where they are, and spares as much air as he can while he pelts down roads to reach them. Ross asks whether he's alright, and Alex hears the wry tone in his voice when he explains he's coming round.

They're at Ross's and to be honest, that's for the best.

He doesn't want to be confronted with the brunet's parents - they obviously won't be pleased with how he's drifted away.

He runs with their song playing loud in his ears.

---

He raps the door with his knuckles and tries to recover as much breath as he possibly can before he speaks. He's caught out though, Ross answering before he's ready - doubled over with hands on his knees, wheezing for breath. He raises a finger to indicate he needs a bit longer, and Ross waits to open the door wider, before Alex nods and straightens up.

"Did you just run the whole way here?" The mirth is audible in Ross's voice, like he can hardly believe it.

Smith nods faux-enthusiastically. "Yeh. 'm 'n idiot."

He pulls the earbuds from his ears, and the sound leaks easily from them, tinny and distorted. He feels embarrassed that Ross has heard the song that means so much to him, for some weird reason.

Ross tilts his head to listen appraisingly. He asks hesitantly. "Is that... Bowie?"

Another nod. "Yeah. Mmm hmm." He reaches for his phone in his pocket to pause it, sighing in short-lived relief.

There's a clunking of lazy-quick steps down the stairs. Alex's heart picks up the pace again, nerves flushing through him, and his eyes blinking rapidly. What will he say.

"Ross?" Chris steps round the corner of the stairs trailing one of his hands down the wall and wearing an ill-fitting tee, and suddenly Alex is overcome.

When he speaks, it's quiet gasps. "Christ, Chris. I'm so sorry, I never realised, I never properly listened to you, and I must've been so difficult to deal with when I was telling you it was okay to be a girl because you were beautiful-" And he cuts off in horror as he replays the sequences in his mind; as a child saying that and ignoring how he became detached, and then that time when he cried he did nothing to help him. He's just as bad as the rest of them, justifying his worth as being merely aesthetic, and-

"Oi, mate." There's a careful hand lightly on his cheek, and his eyes snap up to the deep ones before him. "Look, it's okay, alright. You were a kid, I never told you. You did nothing wrong."

Alex is about to return to a self-loathing rant, but the hand cautiously affixes to his chin to guide him to look back at Chris, whose eyes are swirling with something he doesn't want to think too much about. "There is nothing, I repeat, nothing, you need to apologise for. Understand?"

He nods meekly, and Chris slowly lowers his arm. Now, at least the whole thing with him and Ross makes sense.

Ross indicates upstairs with a small gesture, and Alex nods looking between the two for any sign of rejection. He finds none, and follows them upstairs, to play shitty console games, and it's brilliant.

---

Sometimes he feels like a third wheel.

It's brilliant for what he once thought of as splintered and unsalvageable relationships to be blended into a seamless whole, but there's always something a bit off. The other two being in a relationship means he's convinced he has to keep from being tactile - something he's always been - for fear of inciting jealousy or breaking up the blissful satisfaction the two draw from one another. There's a peace there; one he envies but would never dare touch.

He can't bear to cause either of them pain.

Mainly the three of them sit around and discuss things, and the other two always find some way to be touching, inseparable physically and intertwined at their souls. He knows he sounds stupid, but that's what it seems like to him.

It makes sense to him. No matter whether the leaves are there or not, the wind always plays with the tree. He's not going to be with them always, because he can't be. He comes and goes, drifts to others whims and ends up where they want him, sometimes carried high and fast, sometimes happy and clinging, and sometimes left to fall and splinter and crack.

He's already had the wind with Chris, the safety with Ross.

All that awaits him now is the abandonment and Alex knows it will come.

---

He edges around them, and he can feel their frustration sometimes; he's tuning in to their myriad minutiae of love and friendship.

And he can't bear it anymore.

He thinks he's loved, sure he has, in fact.

Loved the girl he grew up with - and wasn't that just him and life playing a cruel joke with Chris?

Loved Ross, though how much he's scared to admit, to wonder to. He's always held him in the same esteem as Chris.

He wonders how long he can mute his treads and cause as little a ripple on the surface of their quiet symbiosis as possible.

So sometimes he's harsh, and snaps, but it's only because he loves them - yes he does, how can he deny it any more - and he doesn't want his disreputable flames scarring their landscape and his sly temptress cutting the threads that hold them; thin and so tenuous, but so obviously there.

Smiths heard about soul mates. If he had to describe any couple as such, it would be them. Holy shit, it would be them.

He watches them behind like a shadow come to life; a dark and flawed copy of the real thing. Everything they are and have that he wants is so vivid and bright, it's all he can see.

He makes an executive decision - has to.

He needs to cut his own less valuable ties with them. They'll hardly miss him, and any pain that they do feel could be a soothing balm to what he could've caused them if he let his id ooze out and secrete its poisonous words.

So he distances himself and embraces the fall he always knew was coming.

Ignores their stricken looks when he walks past them in hallways, or worse, replies carefully and curtly.

They can never know.

---

Instead of looking up at the sky from his oh-so lofty vantage, he instead traces lichen clinging to the mortar between the wall's bricks with an absent fingernail.

He's got the song playing, and every so often, he feels a breath of wind skim his nape where his head is tilted earthward by defeat. He can practically imagine it as an ephemeral and imperfect copy of the brunet hovering behind him and breathing tauntingly there. He shudders, all the while filled with shame.

Once again, their song has taken on a depressive feel, resounding with a hollowness and pleading that matches what he feels.

God, he's so pitiable. What a mess. He snarls, but the sound is snatched by a well timed lash of air.

---

His neck prickles where he's stood reaching into his locker for the last of his books. He slows his movements, then ceases them altogether, in a bid to better hear any movement.

There's a tap on his shoulder, and he whirls, ready to confront the person, but it's only Chris, why's he here? Alex's expression changes from shock to glowering anger.

The irritation is outstripped by the outrage emblazoned on Chris's. He steers Alex sideways, and slams his back into a closed locker with a strength belied by his sinewy frame. Alex is about to shout, but the viciousness of Chris's hiss has him taken aback.

"What they fuck are you playing at?!" The brunet has one palm splayed on his chest keeping Alex effectively pinned, and the other whirls at his side in wild motions, not a bit restrained.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, I'm not doing anything!" He doesn't bother lowering his voice.

"Do you know how much Ross blames himself for you pissing off? He thinks it's his fault but I should've expected it from you! Your track record's awful." Chris stays in his space and it's too close, his skin itches and he flushes realising the shorter man's palm is still plastered against his upper chest.

He scoffs, tries to laugh it off, but he knows Chris can see right through the flippant facade. He's always been smart, more intelligent than him.

He lets his anger trail of into a trickle, still white-hot, but suppressed into a ball in his gut.

He regulates his voice, so he's speaking under his breath. "Look, I didn't want to ruin your relationship, and let's face it, mate - I would've done that." He tries to convey how serious he is through his eyes like Chris did once before, but all that happens is those deep dark pools draw him in, and-

Chris pushes him back into the locker as he presses forward to slant their lips in a bruising kiss, and Alex's eyes just widen, thoughts sweeping through his mind; what the hell is happening, what will Ross think, say, oh god, he did it, he messed the whole thing up-

"No you didn't, no look, Alex, you didn't, okay. Stop. Shh." Chris looks at him, imploring, and he realises he said that all out loud, doesn't have any way to filter what he's saying, not really.

Chris turns to look down the hallway, whistles shrill and sharp, and a silhouette begins ambling down the twilit corridor, before resolving into Ross.

Alex is about to launch into some tirade or ramble of words to excuse and explain he meant nothing, didn't mean to kiss Chris (it wasn't his fault, seriously!) but the dark haired man just smiles, easily, gently.

"Mate, it's fine, don't worry. We're alright, unless you're not..."

They wait for his response, and he cagily gives a small nod, waiting for the repercussions.

None come.

He takes a deep breath. Okay.

Chris and Ross lock eyes, something passing between them, and the two other men clasp his hands gently and lead him from the building, after making sure he has all his school books.

They go back to Ross's and play video games and eat pizza and in between they kiss and hug and explain and finally, finally, Alex feels the wind lift him and the tree anchor him, so he's raised and able to fly, but still tethered and grounded, so if he ever does fall again, it won't be as painful, and he'll always get back up.

---

They lie on the grass, and it's a far cry from summer days with giggling and blue skies and fluffy clouds, and also from a navy expanse with only stars.

But it's better, because the two of them are with him, hands and souls entwined in gossamer webs of dependence and dedication.

The sky above is sunset, like orange juice, then bright blue fading to coal black. There are sequins dotting the encompassing hemisphere, and the clouds are edged pink. There's nothing wrong with pink. It can be very pretty.

Credit to Siera_Writes on Ao3