Text copyright © Kaddy Dee™ 2015

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. This story is published subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced or retransmitted in whole or in part, in any manner, without the written consent of the copyright holder and any infringement of this is a violation of copyright law. All characters in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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I didn't mind that he didn't like himself and that he wanted to be somebody else. I didn't mind that he thought he was unworthy of love because, if anything, I wasn't worthy of him. He stood alone but I wanted to stand beside him. If only he'd let me.

                                                        * * *

I drifted from party to party like a firefly in search of his light. The dark cloud that followed him around made me seem brighter, so girls always turned their heads to look at me first, but I was always looking at him. He could usually be found lurking in the kitchen, in hiding, sipping his beer slowly with heavy lidded eyes. The cigarette in his hand was always unlit, an accessory that matched the girl on his arm. He wasn't like the others. He didn't rotate from blonde to brunette to redhead. It was always the same girl, skin dark and cheekbones sharp: April Boateng.

        She always had it in for me. With her sharp gaze and quick mind, it's no surprise that April figured it out faster than he did. Maybe it's because I always held his gaze longer than necessary, or because he lets me stay the night. Or maybe it's because he lets me slip beneath the covers even though she hasn't made it past his front door yet.

        Tonight he spots me first and waves a hand, beckoning me to come over and get a drink. I push myself off the kitchen door frame where I've been idly watching him since I arrived. I take his cup, sipping the watered down beer and cringing.

        "This tastes like water," I complain, handing it back to him.

        He quirks a slight smile. It's all he can manage but I'll take it. "Not all of us want to black out later on. Some of us would rather sleep in our own beds than on a stranger's couch."

        I shrug, watching him take a sip, watching him position his lips where mine had just been. April watches, too. She discreetly tries to pry the cup away from his hands but he keeps his eyes trained on me, unleashing a fiery spell of snakes inside my stomach. I drop my gaze and pretend that it doesn't affect me at all.

                                                        * * *

We're in his bedroom two nights later, sharing a beer can without second guessing. Lying flat on my stomach, I pick at a thread on his bedspread while he packs away his games console and switches off the flat screen TV.

        "Mind if I crash here for the night?" I ask, like I do every night, following him with my eyes as he flops down beside me. Curls spill over his brow and ears, curling at the tips like autumn leaves.

        "Depends," he muses quietly before asking the same question as yesterday and the day before that. The same question he'll ask me tomorrow. "Do you snore a lot?"

        "Nope."

        "Then you can stay."

        I crack a grin. "But I talk in my sleep."

        He groans, pressing his face into his palms. "Then you can see yourself out of my house," he replies, hiding a coy smile from me. "You know just how much of a light sleeper I am, Clay."

        I bump my shoulder against his as we both laugh, the chorus of angels and the rumble of the devil. "Yeah, right. Today, you fell asleep during Mrs Barnaby's lecture before she'd even checked the register," I scoff lightly.

        "How do you know that?" he asks, a sheepish smile curving his lips.

        Standing up, I pull the hem of my shirt over my head. He watches me change from the corner of his eye. I turn my back as I strip down to my boxers.

        "I watch you in class. I watch you a lot," I reply nonchalantly, carelessly, as if the weight of his gaze isn't stretching my lips up to my ears. I fumble with the zipper on my jeans. "When you're not drooling all over your desk table you're realigning all your pens and textbooks and if it's neither of those then you're watching me, too."

        I turn around. A flush creeps up his neck, rose pink like his lips; except now they're pulled down by my observation, or possibly by gravity. He can never hold a smile in place for too long. Maybe he's scared it'll lose its sacred meaning, or maybe he doesn't have it in him to fake it anymore.

        "You shouldn't do that," he says quietly.

        "Do what?" I spare him a glance before rolling my socks off and folding my clothes into perfect squares. I place them at the foot of his bed at an angle of ninety degrees otherwise he'll freak out. It's far too hot to sleep in more than one layer.

        "You know exactly what I mean, Clay."

        "You mean watch you in class?"

        "No, watch me all the time."

        Arms stretched, I flop onto the bed which makes the mattress bounce and sink underneath my weight. I slide my palms behind my head to pillow the spongy afro that cushions my skull.

        "I don't watch you," I emphasise greatly, gracing him with a smile. Crooked, his favourite. "I just happen to note the tendency you have to brush your hair back because it's too long and the way you spin your pen on your thumb and the way you sharpen every pencil twice before using them and the way you section your food into the seven food groups and eat them in alphabetical order and—"

        "Stop it."

        I swallow my words and blink at the curt interruption. "Stop what?"

        "Stop it." He ticks a finger between us, mouth working soundlessly. "Stop making me..."

        "Feel things?"

        He gulps, a muffled sound that surrenders warmth inside my chest, a muffled sound that softens my smile. Hands up in a surrendering gesture, I apologise, "All right, I'll stop teasing you."

        "Good. I'll take the floor tonight," he mumbles, trudging towards the door to flick the light switch.

        On, off. On, off. Twelve times. Finally the room is swallowed in darkness. He takes off his clothes and folds them, a meticulous precision to form each crease. I see nothing but shadows and impressions until he pulls the curtains back a crack. A slit of moonlight splits the room in half.

        His arms are full with an extra duvet and two pillows.

        "Seriously?" I ask, arching a brow. He nods, but I won't back down. I pat the bed. "Look, I'm sorry for going off on a tangent. I know it makes you uncomfortable whenever I make it obvious how much I like you."

        He stands there, dropping the snowball of white cotton onto the floor. The duvet makes a dull thud. He hasn't moved. His hands, now empty, curl and uncurl.

        "April already thinks we spend too much time together."

        I pat the bed again. "April isn't here." I wear his favourite smile again and he lowers his gaze, eyelashes brushing his thin brows when he glances up at me again. "And anyway it's not like April makes you feel... things."

        With a resigned sigh, he makes his way to the bed, footfalls muffled as if he's walking on snow and not on carpet. I close my eyes, aware that he's watching me, cautious and nervous and strangely exhilarated. His arms brush mine as he settles into a comfortable position; bronze against ivory, black upon white, skin on skin. I wait for him to retract his arm but he lies completely still, rigid as a rod, still as a sleeping lion. I scoot to the left to give him the space he needs, but not the space he wants. I know what he wants; for the inches to fold in two, for my fingers to brush his, for my hands to trace the lines that he swore he'd hide from me.

        The crack in the curtain lets a shaft of moonlight bathe the room in a pale glow, as if the blue walls have been washed away to reveal their white undercoat. His jawline is incredibly soft, a face that lacks the harsh angles, a face that curves where mine cuts clean.

        "What is it?" I ask when the silence drags on for too long. "What's bothering you?"

        He stares at the ceiling; the stick-on-stars begin to glow dimly in the constellations he mapped out when he was only five years old. Orion, Pisces, Ursa Major, Gemini. Leo, his namesake. Andromeda, his favourite. Virgo, mine. Aries, ours.

        I wish he'd let me map one out for him. I wish he'd let me connect the dots and piece him together even if the lines don't match up the way they used to. I want to tell him that we're all sketches in the making with harsh strokes and erased mistakes that still show through the paper. I want to tell him that it's okay if he doesn't lock the door seventeen times before leaving, and that mess doesn't always mean unclean; that I like him the way he once was, the way he is, and the way he'll always be.

        "Have you ever wanted something that you know you can never have?" he asks quietly, lips parted to form words. Words that are better expressed than said.

        I raise an eyebrow, not the least bit surprised by his question. He often drops bombs on me, forcing me to scrunch my brows and pucker up a frown at his philosophical musings. All at the the ripe time of two in the morning.

        "Yes, I have," I reply thoughtfully after a while, rolling over to study his impassive mask. My index finger traces the line of his collarbone, a dip here, a curve there. He doesn't jerk back, nor does he move closer to me.

        "Like what?" he asks, blinking at the stars above us. They fail to blink back at him, just like I fail to notice the sheen of tears in his eyes, glittering like specks of dust caught in a beam of light, constantly shimmering, wavering, spilling. He doesn't move to wipe his eyes so I take care of the teardrops, just the way I take care of everyday.

        "Stupid things," I reply, listing, "a season ticket to every Arsenal game. A better grade in maths. A new games console—the same one you got last Christmas. For my mother to look me in the eye than at her bottle." He reaches out to halt the ticking muscle at the base of my jaw. My throat tightens, a momentary spasm that he wills away with his soft touch. "I don't know," I mutter in a hollow voice. "Why do you ask?"

        Conflicted, he rolls over and sighs heavily, back to me and eyes trained on the window. His soft exhalation reminds me of the trees outside his room breathing in and out with the gentle breeze, rhythmic and controlled, just like every aspect of his life. My reply is not enough to quench his thirst for answers. I do not know why he bothered to ask me such a question when he already knows the answer. I have many wants, most of which I'm not allowed to have, but there's only one that I think of off the top of my head.

        Him.

                                                        * * *

My head is resting on a desk table, a makeshift pillow I've made using my arms so I can watch him watch the whiteboard in class. He doesn't know that so he turns away from our history teacher to mimic my stance. Our elbows brush, and under the table his ankle swings back and forth, curled around mine. It's just the two of us under a canopy of posters and background chatter, like we're in a cave of our own and everyone else is just an echo.

        "You look sad," he remarks, his voice softer than the beating of butterfly wings.

        I shrug, following the movement of his eyes as they track my dark circles and the blue blush where my mother struck me this morning. He has the deepest, darkest blue eyes. The kind that I can surf on whenever he wraps me up in a current of warmth. The kind that you don't want to fall into because you know that you'll never resurface. I wonder why his eyes are this shade, dark like an overcast sky with the slightest trace of blue behind grey.

        "Want to talk about it?" he asks.

        "About what?"

        "Whatever you want." He pauses and looks over our shoulders before touching my face, a warm finger gliding along my jawline, skating towards the curve of my lip. "Anything," he breathes. I think of the trees outside his room again, a row of skinny, dark angels to shelter us during our long strolls to and from school. I can understand why they bow down to him.

        "The upcoming Valentine's Day dance?" I offer with a slight smirk, a ghost of my trademark grin. He chuckles softly and shakes his head.

        "Anything but that," he says in a sour tone.

        "You said anything," I whine softly, eyes half closed as he traces my lower lip, measuring their fullness with the pad of his thumb.

        "What about your mother?" he asks, always one to cut corners.

        "What about her?" I respond bitterly. "She'll never understand that if I can't be with you then I'd rather be alone."

        "Oh, Clay."

        "Please." I close my eyes to shut him out. "Don't say a thing."

        He shifts, moving closer. The rest of the class are aware and unaware all at the same time. They know that we're friends and that he has a girlfriend. They know that we're close but that he's taken. I want to believe that he loves April, but the way he looks at me tells me otherwise.

        I hold my breath and force back a slideshow of this morning's argument: Mum's lips curled back, finger jabbing my chest, Dad watching silently from the urn above the fireplace. My voice is hollow when I finally ask, "Have you ever wished to be someone else?"

        His response comes quickly. "All the time."

        "Why?" I wonder, scrutinising his face—an angel carved out of flesh, softened to bear the pain of worthlessness, beaten flat to mask the agony caused by his post-apocalyptic mind.

        He frowns a little. Even his frown is beautiful.

        "Because," he starts, "it's tiring to wake up everyday to the same routine. I don't want to spend the rest of my life locking the door seventeen times or tying my shoelace five times or chewing the same slice of pizza nine times before swallowing. I want to be okay with doing everything once. I want to be able to stand imperfection."

        I laugh tonelessly. "You put up with me. That's enough imperfection to keep you going for a century."

        "You're not imperfect, Clay," he says softly.

        I snort a dry laugh. "What am I, then? Perfect?"

        He shakes his head. Heads are turning and wolf-whistles sound from the back of the class but for once he doesn't hear it or jerk back as if a truck of reality has slammed into him. He stays put, fingers skimming the sharp line of my cheeks.

        "You're complete." His eyes pour into mine, warmth beaming me skywards, a tunnel straight for the clouds. "I don't have to fix you like I need to fix everything else. Everything about you that is out of place doesn't have to be put back together because you're already complete."

        "You don't mean that," I whisper back, shutting my eyes tightly, my throat compressing into a tiny cylinder.

        "I do." He withdraws his hand and sits up, training his eyes back to the whiteboard as if he didn't just flip my insides and sear my chest. "I mean everything I say. You, of all people, should know that by now."

                                                        * * *

That same day we meet up in the library because on every tenth day of the new month he likes to reread National Geographic Answer Book: Fast Facts About Our World. I prop my head up, elbows pressed against the table, quietly reading him the same way he stacks up on animal facts.

        "Did you know that koalas have a similar fingerprint to humans?" he asks, glancing up momentarily. A tunnel of heat consumes me. I stare back at him dumbly.

        "Huh?"

        "I said, did you know that koalas have a similar fingerprint to humans?" He chews the corner of his bottom lip and I'm transfixed by the crease that has formed between his thin brows. "Hmm, isn't that weird?

        "Huh?"

        "I've read this book nine times and I've never noted that fact before."

        Dumbfounded, I lick my dry lips. He lowers his gaze to my mouth. "Um, that's nice."

        "What's nice, Clay? That koalas have similar fingerprints to us or that you were never listening to me in the first place?"

        I blink back into existence. "You've been talking?"

        My sheepish smile makes him shakes his head in disbelief, amused. "Since we arrived, idiot," he replies.

        "Really?" I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve and knot it around my finger, watching my skin blush red before it turns milky and bulges like a balloon. "Sorry, my heads all over the place today."

        He smiles, as if he knows that he is the cause of my stuttering pulse. "I can tell."

        When the bells rings, I offer to return the encyclopedia to its place so he can pack up his notebook and pencil case and align the chairs so that they're exactly how they were when we arrived. He nods, clearly distracted, but doesn't meet my eyes. After I slot the heavy book into its place, I turn around and yelp because there's a face floating in front of mine that wasn't there a second ago.

        I clutch my chest, breathing raggedly. "Don't creep up on me like that!" I groan as a smile blossoms across his face. He holds it for longer than any of the previous smiles he has ever shared with me. I can't fight back my own smile. "Seriously, you know how much I hate it when you do that."

        "Sorry," he says, though he doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. "Ready to head back to class?"

        I groan again but decide to drop the matter in the same way that he doesn't kick up arguments whenever I forget to sharpen his pencils twice or make his bed in the morning. It's not worth losing the sight of his rare smile, but that is exactly what happens when I step forward and he doesn't step back. I can see the gears shifting inside his fragile skull. The way he thinks is so mechanical, so ordered, so sequenced; but he doesn't understand that if I step forward he must step backwards. We're so close that I can make out the individual hairs on his eyebrows, thin and curved, just like the curling lashes that sweep his cheeks whenever his eyelids mimic tiredness, slowed and heavy. We're so close that I need only inch forward and our lips will meet. So I do that. I close in. And our lips meet.

        He swallows his surprise, pouring warmth into my mouth—gallons and gallons of heat as if a lit matchstick has been held to my insides. Mine are momentarily frozen in shock, both by my impulsive move and by his encouraging response. I thought he would jerk his head again or that his eyes would harden into steel or that he'd shake his head and say, I'm just not that interested. Not in me. Or boys. Or anyone at all. Not even April.

        I thought too soon.

        He stumbles back. I stumble with him, desperate to keep my mouth attached to his but he has other ideas for me. Two palms find my chest. He finds my heart. He understands the cryptic message of each beat. A hard shove follows. I crash into the bookshelf behind and watch in horror as books fly down, wings wide as their pages flutter and flap.

        "I-I can't." That's all he can manage. Two words.

        "Wait!" I cry.

        I'm back on my feet as he books it to the automatic glass doors, falling seamlessly into the stream of students heading to their next class. His shallow breaths are loud and distinguishable but the roar in my chest is louder. I watch his head bob up and down, a flash of copper amidst a sea of dark heads, shining like a brand new penny. I'm rooted to the same spot, arms heavy and hanging by my sides like dead weights.

        Seconds later, he rounds the exterior of the school building and I spot him as he hurries past the window. He glances up for a second and the distance between us folds in two, then four, then eight. I feel the heat of his mouth and the slashing snakes in my stomach—a vicious whip to my insides, pain that blossoms into longing; up, up and up I go, floating away like a red balloon caught in the sky. My lips fumble to form words but it's no use. I'm stranded between two aisles of romance books. Penned into a prison by Wuthering Heights, The Great Gatsby and Othello. That's the world he has grown up in. A world made for Romeo and Juliet. A world where two, gangly fifteen year olds are expected to fantasise about long hair and waists that dip in and hips that curve out. Not a world I've constructed for the pair of us, a fort made of blankets where two boys may reach for each other in the dark.

        So I duck my head, shoulder my bag and decide to play by his rules. For now.

                                                        * * *

At our school there is an annual dance held for the lower year groups because Year Elevens are the only ones who get to have a prom the week after they graduate. The anticipation is tenfold the buzz of Christmas and everybody goes out of their way to wear red, pink and white on Valentine's Day. Girls wear angel wings and guy carry around a bowstring and red arrows.

        With a costume too tight around my ballsack, I hide away in the library like I do every year because there's a criteria about this dance that irks me: the girls must ask the boys to be their date, not vice versa. So far I've turned down Lisa Sturridge and Annie Kirkland, nervously knotting my fingers as I tried to explain, kindly as possible, that I have no intention of dressing up in a sodding tuxedo for a lame dance.

        They cocked their heads to the side, suspicious, as my gaze flitted over their shoulders and locked onto April's narrowed eyes. She watched me sternly from the lunch queue, an iron-grip caged around her boyfriend to shelter him from me. I escaped soon after, and that's where he finds me just before the bell, aimlessly browsing books that I've read three times over.

        "I've been looking for you," he says, running his finger down the spine of a leather bound book. I bite back a shiver when I think of the same finger tracing the ridges of my own spine so many nights before.

        "Well you found me," I reply with a shrug, flipping the book in my hand open and inhaling the page deeply. I'm rather fond of this scent—crisp and new, perfect, like him.

        He busies himself by reordering the aisle of books into alphabetical order. He comes to the library to do this whenever the weight of the world gets too much. I know this because if he was actually looking for me like he said he was, he would've found me far sooner. I'm not worth that much of his precious time or effort, it would seem.

        "Have you asked April to the dance yet?" I ask casually, deliberately messing up the order of the books and enjoying the way he flinches. His fingers twitch but he manages to suppress the urge to alphabetise the books again.

        "No."

        "Are you planning to ask her?"

        "Probably."

        "When?" I ask, opening another book and tiptoeing to place it in a section it doesn't belong in. Like me, there are so many places the book can be put. There are so many places a book can be concealed. Hide a romance novel in the sci-fi section and barely anybody will notice. Hide an in-the-closet gay boy in a Catholic school and barely anybody will notice.

        That was, until he came along, a boy with a stormy sky for eyes and copper leaves for hair—a forest that burns slowly all year round, sometimes red and sometimes brown, sometimes gold and sometimes all three shades in the sun.

        "Soon." He reaches for the same book and returns it to its place, his jaw set into a square. "Why do you care anyway?"

        "I don't."

        "Good," he huffs, cutting his eyes to the left.

        They find mine, flat like a pool with no depth. The shade of his eyes is one of many and I've grown tired of painting myself a colour wheel of blue so I can match it to the corresponding emotion. Each day he changes his mind, switching between heaven and hell like two sides of the same coin. Keeping up with his moods is exhausting, especially when there's no light in his eyes to go off by. At night they're lined with moonlight, but during the day they're darkened with shadows he can't outrun. Shapeless, watery and flat.

        I hate it when he's like this. Closed off and difficult to understand. Shrouded in darkness. He thinks too much, speculates too often and doubts everything. Every decision he's ever made is reluctant. Going out with April? Not his call. Asking her to the dance? Not his idea. Kissing me? Not his move.

        I leave him behind, wrecking my own storm for him to clear up. I'm desperate to punch a wall or break a chair but instead I opt to avoid him for the next three days, and I say yes when Lisa Sturridge asks me to the dance again. It isn't even hard. I tilt my head back, slap on a crooked smile and reply in a voice that dips an octave. She claps her hands, a gleeful ball of energy, and hurries off to recite our conversation to her friends. Word for word.

        Maybe living in his world isn't all that difficult, after all.

                                                        * * *

It's the day of the dance. I message Lisa that I'm not feeling up for it. She says that she understands but is found crying in the bathroom stalls at lunch time. I can't focus on Mrs Barnaby's monotonous drone, not when the boy across the room is surreptitiously sneaking glances at my side profile like he does every morning we wake up in a tangle of limbs.

        I should be mad at him. I kissed him and he gave me nothing in return. No explanation, no declaration, no confession. In return I hit a brick wall of reality. What was I expecting? That he'd break up with April in favour of guy who messes up his routine and kisses him without asking him for his permission? At least April respects his privacy. All I ever do is leave him breathless, stuttering and confused.

        But I don't care. I want him. I want him so much that my fingers ache and my bones feel weak. I turn my head at a slight angle, my wan smile enough to colour his cheeks.

        "I'm sorry," I mouth, barely moving my lips. Exhaustion is beginning to weather my face.

        "I'm sorry, too," he mouths back.

        And that's it. That's all the response I get for the rest of the lesson. He ducks his head and hides behind his curls, soft springs that bounce up and down as he frowns at his textbook. I've given up on the lesson, so I study him the same way he tries to learn my many facial expressions. I'd much rather figure him out than numbers. I'd much rather interpret his expressions than a poem. I'd much rather memorise his words than key dates in history.

        I'd much rather be with him.

        After class, he tries to flee but I barricade the door so that we're the only two left. Mrs Barnaby is quick to leave, grumbling about having to fight for coffee in the staff room which leaves me alone with him in a classroom. He retreats to his desk and turns his back to me. Anything can go wrong, but I can only think of what he can do right himself. If only he'd let me show him how it's done.

        "Off somewhere?" I ask quietly, careful not to startle him. I can't help but fold my arms across my chest as I lean against the door frame.

        He doesn't relax when I grace him with an easy smile. Neither does he speak when I push myself off the door and lope towards his desk table. In fact, I don't think he's even breathing when I hover over him. He's tall but whenever we're side by side he tries to shrink himself like a flower curling into its bud for the night. The three inches I have on him grows and grows, and just like that, I'm a giant with the power to crush him under my boot.

        "Why are you avoiding me?" I ask, unable to soften the edge in my voice the way I've softened my features.

        "I'm not. You're the one who's avoiding me."

        "You're avoiding me," I state, terse.

        "All right. Fine." He turns his head. I glimpse the soft curve of his jaw. "I'm avoiding you, okay?"

        "Why?" I round the table so we're face to face. "Because of April?"

        He nods, eyes trained on the floor, mumbling, "She doesn't think I should hang out with you anymore."

        "Because I kissed you?"

        His cheeks glow like two blood red suns. "Just because," he huffs, ungiving, ambiguous.

        I know that he's told her. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "And you're okay with that?"

        He glances up, then away—all without meeting my eyes. "I guess. She has a point. You're way too forward. You always have been."

        "So that's it?" I shake my head, disbelief pushing through my limbs, pushing through my hand, pushing through my cropped afro. "You're going to act like that kiss meant nothing to you."

        "Why?" His eyes are on mine, wavering like the surface of an ocean, ripples spreading out, diffracting. "Did it mean something to you?"

        I study him in a new light, different to the soft cone that highlighted his face in class. Now all I can make out are shadows, crevices, fissures. Cracks—lots of them. They're everywhere, spreading out as if my answer has the power to shatter him.

        I hold his gaze. "It meant everything to me."

        Without my noticing, he inches closer, the table barring him from touching me. "It meant everything to me, too."

        "Then why won't you let me in anymore?" I ask, frustration getting the better of me.

        "Because letting you in means letting everybody know."

        My lips tighten into a frown. "So this isn't really about April, then, is it?"

        "No"—he looks away—"it's not."

        "Couldn't you have admitted that in the first place instead of pinning your fears on your girlfriend?" I shoulder my bag and back away slowly. "If you're not ready to come out, just say so. Stop beating around the bush all the time and dragging me by my ankles. You're not the only who'll get it left, right and centre from everybody. I will, too." I pause, pursing my lips into a thin, brown fold. "I already do. Mum hates me for it but, for you, I'd do it." I shake my head in disbelief. "I'd suck it up and hold my head high because I'd do just about anything for you."

        I'm out of the door and halfway along the corridor when I hear him, huffing and puffing miles away. The squeak of his shoes skidding across the linoleum tiles makes my ears ring. It doesn't matter. None of this does.

        The faster he runs, the further away he gets; quieter almost, as if my heart has detached itself from my body and is floating away on its own accord. Floating away from him, slow and painless. All he has to do is cut the string keeping me tethered to him and I'll be freed.

        "I'll do it!" he calls out after me, dogging after me. "I swear I'll do it, Clay."

        "Do what?" I drawl, tired of being his elastic band. Back and forth, this way and that, round and round. It's dizzying.

        "Go to the dance with you."

        I sink. Down, I fall. Down until my heart slams back into my body, a roaring rush to my ears. The impact winds me and air rises up my throat, a balloon that is weightless but scratchy. I snort a laugh at his joke. It's all I can muster without falling from the weight in my chest.

        "Yeah, right," I scoff.

        He's struggling to keep up, as if chasing me requires more energy than he has to give away. Or maybe it's because he needs to save some to give to April later, so he can pace his room at night and lie awake for days on end because of his last minute decision to be my date. He'll have to call it quits with her. And he can't do that. He wouldn't do that. Not for me. Not for anybody.

        "No," I say, shaking my head. "You're going with April."

        "I want to go with you."

        He stops still but I keep walking, reminding him, "But you can't."

        "Says who?" he calls out, stranded. I refuse to turn back.

        "Everybody. Me. You."

        He catches my wrist before I slip away completely. I'm surprised by the force he uses to keep me rooted to the ground and in that moment it's clear that he'd rather spend all his energy on me than an inkling on a girl he doesn't love. Or maybe he wants to keep me afloat just as badly as I want to keep him on solid ground.

        Grip tight, eyes serious, lips upturned. A crooked grin. So unlike him, yet impossibly handsome. He clears his throat. "Will you go to the dance with me, Clay?"

        I pretend to think about it for a while as he takes my other hand and tugs me forward. The hallways are deserted, his voice—loud and sure—echoes forever.

        "Yes." I laugh, giddy and stunned by the hands that yank me forward by the collar of my shirt into a dizzying kiss. "Yes, yes, yes."

                                                        * * *

He picks me up at six. The second hand sharp on the twelve and I've been sprawled on the couch for half an hour like wet washing draped on a washing line, patiently waiting, fiddling with the cuffs of my dress shirt, eyeing the front door. The door bell rings thirteen times. My mum shrieks from her permanent spot on the floor, lounging in a pool of liquor, but I let it ring all thirteen times before opening the door.

        "Hi." I smile, impressed by the single rose he holds out for me, white as if it has been drenched in a sun of its own.

        "Hi," he replies, shyly retracting his hand. I quickly take both, the rose and his hand.

        "You're on time." I glance at my wristwatch and at his face, quirking an eyebrow and teasing him with a smirk, softened like pink satin stretched over my mouth to mask my nervous chuckle. "It's six on the dot."

        He scratches the back of his neck. "I got here twenty minutes too early because you always take forever to get dressed in the morning and so I counted down from twelve-hundred and, uh... Clay?"

        "Mmm?"

        "Why are you looking at me like that?"

        "I-I, uh..." My gaze trails up an down his black slacks, shiny black shoes and the crisp white shirt that he must have ironed at least three times, unbuttoned at the collar. Strange. He never leaves the top button undone. "You look really cute."

        He wrinkles his nose, a constellation of freckles coming together. "Cute?" he echoes, appalled by the very word.

        "Adorable," I offer in exchange for a smile. His lips are straight as steel, and he doesn't budge when I gesture for him to start walking.

        "Adorable? Seriously, Clay?" A flurry of warmth rains on my cheeks, marking them pink when he huffs and drags me towards the waiting cab. "You're hopeless at compliments," he says to me when we settle into the back seats.

        I fiddle with the rose in my hand. "Yeah," I mutter quietly. "Hopelessly in love with you, idiot."

The instant we walk into the hired hotel ballroom where the dance is being held, heads turn and zoom in on our hands. He gulps nervously, scouring the crowd for April. Clad in a dazzling red dress, she barrels her way through the crowd to get to us but is held back when Lisa Sturridge clamps a hand on her shoulder.

        "Don't," she whispers into April's pearl adorned ears before sparing me an understanding smile. My chest expands, blooming with gratitude as she steers April to the girls bathroom for what looks like a long talk.

        "We shouldn't be here," he whispers in my ear when I hand him a glass of punch and down mine like a vodka shot.

        "You asked me to be your date and turned up to my doorstep looking cute as hell and now you're ready to bail?" I scoff and take his hand, dragging him to the dance floor. "No way. No freaking way. You are going to dance with me. Got it?" People instantly shrink back to give us space. I wink at a gawking boy who cannot comprehend that two guys can actually hold hands. Moron.

        "Clay?" There's a tug on my sleeve. Bottomless blue eyes win my attention and just like that I'm surfing on wave of warmth.

        "Hmm?"

        "Can we go home?"

        "Absolutely not." I latch an arm around his waist and pull him closer, bumping my belly against his. "Come on. Move your feet."

        "I can't," he says stubbornly, anchored to the tiled floor, squares that flickers red, blue and green whenever the strobe lights sweep over us.

        "Dance."

        "I can't."

        "Why not?" I pucker my lips to distract him, a miraculous pout. It works. He lowers his gaze to my mouth and I sweep him off his feet, twirling us in circles until he pounds his fists on my back. I release him. "There," I laugh, an infectious note that makes his tight features slacken into a breathless smile. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

        "You're the worst."

        "The best," I correct him, brushing the tip of my nose against his. "And you really do look cute tonight, all dressed up to impress me. I appreciate the effort you're making."

        "I'm not trying to impress you," he huffs.

        "Well, either way you look seriously cute," I reply, waggling my brows.

        "Oh, for the love of God. Don't call me cute ever again," he groans, eager to pull away, eager to flee, eager to run all the way home. I tighten my grip on his waist so that he knows that he's not going anywhere if I'm not with him. If he's going to take flight then I'll be his wings. "I'm serious, Clay," he says, lips pressed together. "I'm not cute."

        "You are. You really, really are."

        "Stop it."

        "Stop what?" I pressing my mouth to his before he can utter another syllable. He talks way too much.

        There are eyes on us; cameras sharpening their lenses to focus on us. They think that the image is blurred and that we're the problem when it's their eyes that aren't functioning properly. They have a tunnel vision, half the story but not the entire picture. Words, not sentences. Stories, not facts. It's ridiculous. These kids are sitting at the bottom of the ocean with no more than a ray of light to filter the murky depths below. He and I—we—are on the water's surface, gliding effortlessly, basking in gallons of light, gods where they are mere mortals, invincible where they are impressionable.

        He pulls back, lips skimming the shell of my ear. "Everyone is staring at us, Clay."

        "Let them," I whisper back, pressing my lips to his again. "Let them stare all they like."

After three more slow songs, we escape the scrutiny of our classmates to take stroll in the hotel's extensive garden. I wouldn't mind dancing for another hour, for another century, possibly forever if that means I get to feel his hands palming my shoulder. But he wouldn't quit whining so I gave in and let him drag me into the Garden of Eden. Rose shrubs blossom on both sides of the concrete path and salt lingers in the air, an ocean view spilling over the hotel's castle walls when we round the first of many corners. It's quieter here, the drumming music no more than faint heartbeat.

        We carry our shoes in our hands, socks stuffed deep inside. We sit on the fountain's rim to dip our toes into the cool water. A chorus of crickets chirp to fill the silence as his eyes dance into mine like the glowing fireflies around us—bright and dizzy and alive.

        "Clay?"

        "Hmm?"

        I glance down at the fingers woven in between mine. I'm doused in the spotlight of his gaze when I look back up. He continues to study my side profile, tracing the slope of my nose and the square of my jaw as if I've changed since we set foot here, as if I've shown him a world that he never thought to imagine on his own.

        "I never..." He struggles to find the right words. "I mean, I always thought that..." He struggles again. "What I mean is that it was so easy in there after half of them got bored and started dancing again," he finally breathes, an excited whisper to match his bright eyes.

        "Coming out was never meant to be hard, silly," I reply, sparing him a smile that tinges his cheeks pink. "It isn't about how hard they'll take it the news. It's about how you'll let it affect you now that they know." I squeeze his hand, running my thumb over his knuckles. "You only have to be yourself. Nobody can antagonise you for being yourself."

        "I just thought that—"

        "Thought what?" I cut him off. "That they'd run us out of town with pitchforks?" I snort a light laugh. "This isn't the same generation that your parents grew up in. Society may be harsher at critiquing us but it's also more accepting towards those who are different." I chew the corner of my lips before adding, "Well partly, that is."

        "Maybe it was so easy because you were with me. I don't know, Clay. I always thought that everyone else had an equal say in who I'd be allowed to date."

        "Well, the world that I've built for us only has space for two," I respond with a suggestive smile. He blushes and hides behind a curtain of curls.

        "Stop that," he says.

        "Stop what?" I grin and bump my shoulder against his. "Making you feel things."

        "Yes. That."

        I laugh harder. "How exactly do you feel about me, anyway? You never say anything out loud because you've always been too busy lying to yourself."

        "I feel..." He glances up at me, sunlight caught in his eyes, colouring them gold for a flickering moment. Then they're blue again and I'm drifting in the sky he has painted for me. "I feel lightweight." I quirk up an eyebrow and he sighs, shyly admitting, "I feel like I'm going to float away with you."

        I lean forward to take his face in my hands; I press my brow against his, inhaling the soft scent of roses and greenery until I'm dizzy with love. He curls his fingers around my wrists and guides my hands to his shoulders so I can hold him still as he kisses me.

        He's a cathedral, I think quietly. I think with my lips, exploring a world he helped me construct tonight. My chest caves upwards like a dome, and all the love I have for him shines through the glass panels encasing my heart. My insides are bathed in a red glow that burns brighter when he whispers my name into my mouth. I pray for us. I pray that the stars will continue to align themselves for us and that we'll have many more tomorrows.

        I'll keep praying, always.

                                                        * * *

Now that he's accepted the part of him I've helped bring out, I think I understand him a little better. I've unlocked the many shades of his eyes. I understand why they're so stormy and why they're bottomless like an ocean shrouded in darkness. You know that it's blue, you've always known that the ocean is blue, but the darkness makes it hard to see. You're sure of it because your parents have told you that the ocean can only ever be blue. But you're never told about the shades in between: dazzling aquamarines, serene ceruleans, sheets of steel, glittering irons, murky browns, stormy greys. There's a spectrum you've yet to experience. Something that cannot be explained, only seen with one's own eyes. Just like I cannot explain why he makes my pulse quicken, just like he cannot explain his OCD tendencies.

        "All those days that you openly rejected me," I turn to him as we walk to our next class, unafraid to say, "I used to think you were just like them."

        The back of his hand brushes mine but he won't take it. Not with an audience watching us like hawk-eyes since the dance.

        "I'm not like them. I really want to"—he lowers his gaze to my mouth—"kiss you, that is."

        I stop still, zeroing my gaze on him. "Then what's stopping you?"

        "I'm scared," he says, nervously glancing at the milling students.

        "Why are you so scared? They can't hurt us."

        "I don't know. I-It's hard for me, you know. All my life I've raised to believe that love exists between a man and woman. That you cannot buy a house if you do not have a wife to share it with. That you cannot have kids if they do not have a mother to raise them. That I'll never fall in love if it's not with a girl."

        "But I'm not a girl."

        "I know that." He tilts his head to the side a little. A curl spills onto his brow like lick of bronze paint. "Yet I'm completely and utterly in love with you."

        "So what does that say about your parents? And about my mother?"

        "That they're wrong," he murmurs, warmth from his breath coaxing my lips to part. They do, releasing a ragged breath that has been caught in my throat for a while. His eyes won't stop following their movement as I speak. I think I have him under a spell, but I can't be too sure since my own eyelids are half closed.

        "And what does that say about us?" I raise the curl that has fallen out of place and return it to its position. It falls back down, disobedient. Refusing, ungiving, like the spark in his eyes. "What do you have to say about us?"

        "That you are mine just as I am yours."

        And then he kisses me in front of the current of teenagers rushing to their next class, and I let him take me underwater with him because if he's drowning, I want to drown with him. And if he needs someone to breathe through, I'll give him my lips. And if he's sinking, I'll always float him to the surface.

_________________________________________________________________

A/N: For all the sappy romantics out there, Happy Valentine's Day. For all the cynics like me, hold back the cringe attack and accept the cuteness for what it is, all right? I'm at that awkward phase between planning ideas for a new story after having just finished a heavy piece—in other words, I ain't got shit to write about. And just like any other hobby, you'll lose the hang of it if you don't practice regularly so I saw this one shot competition and thought: heck, why not give it a go, Dee?

I mean, I didn't kill off any characters. Don't I get brownie points for that?

– Kaddy