"Port de bras and rise to releve, grande plie endu devant - keep it slow I want to see you working through the demi-pointe - hold for two counts — Jamie I want that head on the working foot - now close for two good Jamie.

Tendu derriere - close - tendu a la seconde — work the inner thighs!"

Ballet is different. For ballet, you have to be immaculate. You're rarely able to dance long enough to really get into it before the music stops and the teacher yells. Technique and showmanship, no matter what cost. Modern is a kind of rebellion to ballet. It's like someone said 'well that's cool, but this actually looks better.' And the ballet people just said 'that's not how to dance. Your left foot is out of second and your arm's too low for fourth.' So modern was born, built on passion and impulse. I'm not sure which I like more. Ballet requires discipline, and it's the knowledge that you can always do something better that appeals so much and keeps you working right into the night. And sometimes I do, when the curtains are closed and no one's around. I dance until my feet are numb and my whole body is aching.

*

I wasn't in any of the same classes as Phil, but I had drama with Chris three times a week in a dilapidated theatre building next to the sports hall.

"Och aye!"

"Ock ai!"

"No, the 'aye' needs more of a sway — you need to hear the 'A' just a little bit, it's not just 'I'."

"Okay, okay, och a-i?"

"Close enough..." Chris grinned.

His accents had always been his forte, along with crazy, side splitting characterization. Previously I'd watched from across the room, but now I was at his side and getting the full force of his humour. I was more of a serious, 'truthful' actor I guess; I had my Stanislavsky volumes but I'd never have Chris's flair.

"So uh, did you have a hangover yesterday?" I'd been trying to bring up the party all morning, but Chris had a film project coming up and didn't seem too interested.

"Nah, not really, I'm still young. Okay, for the opening sequence I really need you to do that old man thing - when the zombies first arrive? And it's a good thing we're supposed to be doing a monologue each because I want you to learn Shakespeare."

"What?! Why do you need Shakespeare for a zombie movie?"

"Don't worry, it's a really good soliloquy, the Macbeth one? You probably know it already so you'll get a good mark for it, and you'll be helping me out." Chris had his head buried in the costume rack, in between the revolutionaries' jackets from last year's 'Les Miserables' and a polka dot pantomime skirt.

I watched him for a minute before trying again.

"Phil was er, pretty drunk on Saturday, too. Um..." I trailed off lamely.

"Was he? I don't really remember." Chris's voice was muffled by pantaloons and I couldn't see his expression.

"Yeah he, was really funny." I cursed myself quietly. "And I didn't know PJ could sing."

"Well seeing as you had only just met him I wouldn't expect you to." Chris replied sarcastically, emerging triumphant with half a rubber duck and a pistol. "Ha!"

I blinked. "I'm not even going to ask."

*

We wandered out into the sunshine after class, Chris drilling me on my Macbeth lines.

I took a deep breath unwittingly mixed with a sigh. "Is this a dagger which I see before me; the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! That's literally all I know though, and you still haven't explained why you want it in your film thing." My Scottish had accent collapsed pitifully after the first sentence.

"Then it goes: I have thee not, but I still see thee. And all will become clear when we start shooting, never fear. It's going to be really dramatic so I might have to deepen your voice when I edit it..." Chris smirked, jumping out of my reach as I threw a punch at his stomach.

"Hey! My voice is very manly thank you very much. And I'll-oh." I'd just spotted Gabes and Jake, lumbering towards me with identical 'sup' nods. "I'll er... see you around." In one swift movement I veered away from Chris onto the grass, trying to make it seem like I hadn't been walking with him and firmly pushing away the twinge of guilt that threatened my gut.

"Hey guys." I said, starting to smile in greeting then remembering my company and adopting what I hoped was a surely, threatening expression instead. Come to think of it, my voice did actually sound pretty high pitched and feeble. I frowned.

"Yo." Gabes grunted. His voice was manly.

"Who's your boyfriend?" Jake smirked.

"What?!" I panicked — thinking of the moonlight at the party - then realised he meant Chris. "Oh. He's in my drama group - I mean the teacher put us in groups. We were just talking about the play."

"Oh, yeah," Gabes grunted disapprovingly "I forgot you did drama."

I winced. "There's only four boys in the class man, I reckon I'm onto something. And sometimes you have to kiss the girls." I tried to copy Jake's swagger, but ended up tripping up over my own feet.

Gabes snorted. "I can kiss all the girls I want, thanks. I don't have to pretend to be a babe magnet."

I laughed along with them, turning my face briefly to the clouds and taking a deep breath. It was going to be a long lunch break.

*             *             *

Moonlight filtered through a window and the corridor was empty. I could hear the faint ticking of a clock, but it must have been coming from inside one of the bedrooms as the white walls that lined the hall were bare. My breathing sounded very loud in the still night. It was coming out raspy and fast, and I was shivering in my soaked t-shirt, creating a puddle of water on the floor.

I was ninety-nine percent sure that this was their room, so why was I so nervous about knocking on the door? I closed my eyes briefly. They were my friends. It had gone eleven, they wouldn't have any visitors now. It was definitely their room.

Taking a quick gulp of air, I brought my fist up in one motion to rap on the door before I could change my mind.

"Come in!" PJ answered, his gentle voice muffled by the door, and I let out the breath I'd been holding.

I put my hand on the handle cautiously, not sure what to expect, and pushed. I'd never been inside one of the dorm rooms before, and was confronted almost immediately with the bare torso of Chris Kendall. His bed was almost up against the door and he lay face down moaning obscenities in a Russian accent. I blinked, and it took me a second to take in the rest of the space.

The room was small, barely big enough for the three single beds and four desks. Posters and pictures covered the walls, and any white space was littered with tack holes and scraps of blue tack from many generations of previous inhabitants. Phil and PJ were huddled round a laptop completely ignoring Chris, an open box of cereal in front of them. Phil raised his head in greeting and I watched his jaw drop as he took in my appearance, standing sheepishly in the doorway and drenched with green-tinged water.

"Shit, Dan. What happened?! Why are you even in college? You should be at home — I thought it was Bryony! Oh my god, are you okay? I'll get a towel."

Chris rolled over on the bed and eyed me sympathetically. "Was it the fish pond? I bet it was the fish pond. That one's a classic." He rolled back over and switched to quoting Macbeth, this time Scottish, his voice muffled by the duvet. "It is the bloody business which informs, thus to mine eyes."

PJ was already at my side, closing the door and helping me out of my shirt while Phil wrapped a large, fluffy towel around my shoulders. "Where are your trousers and shoes and things?" PJ asked, concerned. "And how the hell did you end up in the fish pond?"

They sat me down on the bed, Chris pausing his ramblings only to shuffle over to one side.

"It was Knuckles," I said with a sigh. "He doesn't like me hanging around with you guys, I guess. I was supposed to be staying over Jake's for Call of Duty. Only, we stayed at college for ages. And then knuckles decided I had to 'prove I'm not a pussy'. Only he was a little more forceful than that." I shuddered at the memory. "So I jumped in. I took my jeans off because they were new; only they weren't there when I got out. And neither was Knuckles." I ran my fingers miserably through my hair, jumping and apologising as I sprayed water all over Chris's bed.

"Look - don't worry about the jeans, you can borrow some of mine. And a shirt too as this one's covered in some slimy green stuff... anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is that those three are some of the biggest dicks I've ever met." PJ shook his head angrily. "You can stay here tonight and have a shower. And, just, screw those bastards." He put his arm around my shoulders and all of a sudden I was fighting back tears.

"Thanks," I murmured. "I only met you on Saturday and here I am snivelling on your doorstep." I laughed, somewhat pathetically.

"Don't worry about it!" PJ smiled, and there was something about his throaty chuckle that put me at ease.

Phil hadn't spoken since I'd walked in the door, instead sat rubbing my back soothingly with an anxious expression, nibbling his lower lip. "You can sleep in my bed." His voice was soft and sympathetic and he reminded me of my mum when I'd come home from school covered in bruises. "I'll kip on the floor, okay? They won't touch you here."

"I can't take your bed!" I gasped. "I'll sleep on the floor, it's fine. Honestly."

"No way," Phil shook his head emphatically. "What if you get pneumonia or something?"

"Yeah, that's a good point actually," PJ interrupted. "You should really go have that shower and warm up. And you've er... got some pond weed in your hair."

All at once I started laughing. I probably looked hilarious. "You guys are the best," I smiled weakly. "I mean it. Even you, Chris."

Chris raised two hands in the rock and roll symbol by way of acknowledgement, his face still firmly in the duvet.

*

PJ's soft snores filled the darkened room. I felt warmer and more absolutely comfortable than I had in years, but there was still something missing.

"Phil..?" I whispered.

"Yeah?" Came the hoarse reply.

"Are you awake?"

"No. I like to hold conversations in my sleep. Sometimes I even write poetry about stupid people called Dan."

I tried to smother a giggle. "I feel really awful about taking your bed. Isn't the floor really hard and uncomfortable?"

"I guess a little, but I am prepared to suffer for my friends." He sighed melodramatically. "Unless you want me to come up there with you and stop you having nightmares about deep sea dwelling goldfish and murderous pondweed?"

I buried my face in my pillow and snorted. "Attack of the tadpoles."

He giggled along with me.

I took a deep breath. "But yeah. That would be nice. I mean, if you want to." I squeezed my eyes shut and waited.

"Yeah, okay. I'll creep in beside you so as not to wake the dreamers."

I could hear the rustle of blankets and then quiet footsteps as he shuffled towards me through the darkness. The air was cold and I pushed back the duvet and moved over, glad he couldn't see my grin in the darkness. I felt the dip of the mattress before I felt him, and then he was beside me, our warm skin pressed together in the confinement of the single bed. With a little shuffling we managed to pull the blankets over ourselves and get comfortable, facing each other, so close that I could feel his hair tickling my face. We held our breath for a moment, listening to PJ's snores.

"We didn't wake them." Phil whispered, his sweet toothpaste-breath fluttering my lashes.

Suddenly, there was a noise from the bed by the door. "Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth." 

*

Under the duvet Phil's hand found mine, and our fingers entwined until our snores joined PJ's and Chris's in quiet, peaceful harmony.