He kissed her in the street because he could.

It was too late. Too dark. He was too high. Too taken away with the look in her eyes. He might even have told himself it was something. Worse still, he might even have believed it.

It was a disgusting early morning affair, with fingers entwined and lips ghosting over cheeks. He wanted to go back. To put his head back into place atop his neck. But she had him now; his head in her hands.

And he let her. With eyes wide. Imploring. Willing. He let her. He whispered a prayer up to the silent, inky black heavens, and let her.

For it was either to make a mess or to make nothing at all. And if George were to die that night, he was sure the reddening marks, sucked into his neck, would serve as a suitable epitaph.

Her arms reached up, tugging at his neck, locking their bodies together; if George had wanted escape, it no longer posed itself as an option. Yet he was content, oddly so - under the moonlight, caught by a slow, drugged look in a pretty girl's eyes. It was an easy night if he let it be. If he turned off his mind for a while. And George reckoned he could do that.

"Where are your friends?" Her voice was soft, different somehow: carrying an accent that George would have perhaps recognised sober.

"Mmm..." George drew his features out into a frown, pushing his head onto her shoulder and staring out into the darkness.

They were alone. He hadn't thought about that. He'd never spared a thought for who they'd been, and instead fixed his head on who they were: each individual moment. It was fun to live like that, but it was always soon to catch up to him - consequence always in tow.

"Have they gone home?" She filled the silence, words rolling easily over her tongue. George thought they might have comforted him if he could have believed the glassy look in her eyes: concern. She didn't care. Not really. She was just here. Like a ghost among men; he'd take her hand for the night, but nothing more.

"What friends?" George slurred, struggling to recall the evening at all. As far as he was concerned they were hardly on good terms with him. Chelsea, perhaps, would have given him the benefit of a night, of a conversation, of a high, but he didn't see her leaving him to another girl.

"What friends?" She mimicked, smile curling over her lips. "Exactly..." With swift movements her lips were back on his again and George let himself be subdued. He let the world ebb and fade away, for he dreamed of a tomorrow in which he didn't have to wonder why.

She tasted like the night itself: the inky blackness of stars, the bittersweet mellow light of the moon, the sharp, sparkling bite of the stars. He dug his teeth into her lip: tearing his own hole in the universe - somewhere to curl up inside and live forever - yet another makeshift home.

She laughed against him. He held her still. They shared thoughts. Silent. Unwilling. For on the night that the sky met the ground, the world fell to its knees.

George put his tongue in her mouth and closed his eyes.

He couldn't remember her name but it didn't matter at all.

He could hardly recall himself; he was no longer someone, he was no longer tied down. He was just George. Out in the street, kissing a pretty girl, with his tongue in her mouth.

And he reckoned he could deal with that; it was easy. Almost.

"Come on." She told him, voice melodical, fingers curling around his own. He let the night unravel around them, for she parted the darkness like the tide underfoot.

But the porch light was so bright. And she faded away soon. Somber and still, the night crumbled around them. Pretty girl mirrored the rest of the world under bright light; she smiled across at him with crooked teeth and a redness to her cheeks.

He let her take him inside anyway. It wasn't his house - he was at least sure of that. Still, he never felt unwelcome, he never felt out of place. For maybe she wasn't beautiful, maybe she wasn't the moon herself in human form, but maybe she was something else.

With closed doors, and warmth rising like fires inside their chests - artificial flames - he set his mind to wonder. He set his eyes to the ceiling and felt fingers around his wrists: cold even in the warmth.

His gaze steadied to watch her. To watch the room change, to watch the darkness envelope them once more, for her body shimmered and shone like she was one of the stars. Like George had yanked her down from heaven that night; he stared at her unwilling, and wondered if he ought to put her back.

Still he wished. Still he stared: transfixed. For she was beautiful again, and George grasped the illusion like it was all he had.

He fucked her that night. Because he could.

Because she was pretty. Because she let him. Because for a few, precious moments, he'd thought he was in love.

George lay awake that night: everything he'd once hated.

The night dragged on for days, but the warmth beside him remained constant, remained consuming - something he could cling to through the darkness, through gails dragging his every thought from his head and out the window. He missed his head, but he'd never say that he wanted it back.

Still, through it all, he kept his eyes shut. He kept his eyes shut and dreamt of the sun. He dreamt of its warmth: of something real, anything that meant something at all. Desperate for the world that had long eluded him, George went to sleep and dreamed that he was not himself.

But the morning was cold.

A cold he could not escape, with eyes fluttering open, and a steady morning light flooding into the bedroom.

It was a house he didn't know. A world unfamiliar, surrounded by footsteps he'd never taken. George sat up in bed and pulled his arms across his chest.

Although the bed was empty beside him, he knew it to be a lie - for he saw the crinkling of the sheets, and the dip in the mattress, and memories slashed across his mind, like shards of broken glass - all that remained of last night's mirror, of the self he'd once seen opposite him.

He dared not move. He was content instead to lie there forever. To let days pass him by, to even elude the midday sun he'd once craved. For suddenly, in the day, in his bitter sober head, nothing meant anything at all.

He missed his friends. He wanted Jesse to slap him across the face if he so deserved it, for he certainly didn't doubt that he did. George lay still for a moment more and let the world creep back into his head. Fuck love, fuck the drugs, fuck everything else. George missed the dust on the walls, forever cans of soup, and cracks in those walls - those marks that they shared.

He dared not face anyone else. Not even Chelsea, as much as she'd plead and beg, insistent that she cared still, for he wasn't sure if he trusted her anymore. He pulled his head back to days before, to what he'd said, to what he'd confessed.

George delved into the words that had escaped him; George stumbled at the notion of the prettiest boy. Still, he wasn't beautiful, but George owed himself the truth.

But Matty wasn't real. Not anymore. George assured himself of that.

He wasn't real for him, at least. He wasn't there; he wasn't there for him to love. He was distant now - nothing more than a memory.

George hoped at least that he was happy. And that he ended it with that girl - the one he didn't love, for no one deserved that, no matter what they'd done. No matter how many cracks they'd left, no matter how many scars they'd made, no matter how deep a hole they'd dug.

But George didn't miss him; he wouldn't allow it.

He let out a groan and watched the dust settle around him; he lay in that bed and felt himself grow old. Until, a spell seemed to break, and the silence crumbled despite ovation, and fell swiftly to its knees.

"Hey George..." It was that voice. All over again. Distant with more than a door between them. He didn't miss her, but instead how she'd felt last night.

George closed his eyes and didn't say a word. For feigning sleep seemed the easiest option this time. And George was not the hero the world had thought him to be.

"I don't know if you're awake, but..." She continued: relentless as ever. He hated her in the morning light. "I've made you breakfast. It's downstairs. It's getting cold. But I don't know if I should wake you... I don't... know..."

George blinked his eyes open wide: dreading that her hand might find the doorknob, and that her eyes might find his own, and that she might convince him to stay, and that might he fall in love with her for another night. He couldn't let that happen.

"I'm awake..." His voice was hushed, heart thudding from inside his chest.

"Morning." He could feel her smile. He could feel so much love, but he'd seen it all before; he rejected it still, he pushed her away, and hoped for a day anew.

"Yeah... I'm... give me a minute." He stretched his arms up into the air and stumbled out of bed. Listening for her footsteps growing softer, the stairs creaking as she faded away into the distance, George's lips ignited with a smile. Perhaps there was hope, after all.

Still, he couldn't quite recall her name. He told himself it didn't matter, and faced his reflection in the mirror as he picked last night's clothes up off the floor and pulled them on as quickly as he could manage.

He looked a mess. There was no denying that. He wanted to get out of his head just as much as he wanted to get out of the house. Out of his head as much as hers. But she was lucky; she'd forget him soon, but this night, these days, would plague George for time immeasurable.

With one fleeting glance back towards the bedroom door, George uttered a silent apology, and left one more person behind with a push: opening up her bedroom window. He didn't hesitate before dangling his legs out, so very careful not to look down, not to give into himself, to those most intimately innate desires, as his legs found the drainpipe a little way from the window.

It was then, with fresh morning air in his lungs, that George's fingers slipped from the windowsill and his body clung to the drainpipe, hands hitting the wall - hard. He let the impact flow through him before he put his muscles back into motion and made his way down the building, stumbling a little, but eventually landing firmly on his feet in the small side street between two houses - her's and next door's.

George gave one look back up to the bedroom window, to the world he'd once known, and whispered a feeble goodbye, before disappearing off through the streets, to fix the morning the very best he could.

He spared not one thought for the girl sat in her kitchen, forever waiting, for the minute eternal, for the breakfast she'd made him, growing cold in the morning air. It was easier that way, it seemed.

George found himself from one doorstep to another within no more than ten minutes. It was this house, however, that seemed to bear the weight of the world, for behind that old, paint-chipped, front door, lay someone that did indeed matter.

Minutes dragged on for hours, for time infinite, as George stood there, letting the sun ascend the pale blue skies, letting the world tick on by. But time was never infinite, nothing was ever truly indefinite, and it was only a matter of time until George's fingers moved of their own accord and turned his key in the front door.

The world slowed as the door swung open; hesitant, George let his feet lead him inside. Each footstep seemed to resonate with the force of an earthquake, but still George felt like he was floating - walking on nothing at all.

Eyes scanned the skinny hallway before him, tracing familiar cracks, scuff in comfortingly hideous wallpaper. He knew this house. He knew this home. Even as it was never quite his, his key fit the lock, and his fingertips could trace cracks on the walls with his eyes closed. If this wasn't home, it was as close as he was going to get.

And the silence parted slow. Dark eyes held his own from the doorway. The empty door frame to the kitchen. For a friend had torn the door off two months prior - bad trip, nothing more; the kitchen didn't necessarily need a door.

Almost instinctively, his fingertips moved to trace the empty hinges. George watched him, praying momentarily that the reddening skin of his fingers would attract each and every splinter. He wanted him to hurt. To hurt like he had too. But the house was silent, still - they were safe here, at least.

"Took your time coming home." His voice was unusually low, almost gravelly - out of place; George wondered if he knew him sometimes.

His eyes watched him: hawkishly. George let them seek, let him take what he sought. For they were just people, these were just words, and what could words do beside vibrate against bone. George wasn't scared. Not anymore.

"Yeah." He didn't evade the truth, pulling himself upright, for he was a great deal taller than him, if ever it did show. "There was a girl."

Stale air erupted with laughter; George watched as his eyes lit up, catching the sunlight from the kitchen windows - wide open, aiding escape to residual ashtray smoke. Sometimes, George saw a man he knew in those eyes, in the lines of that face, in the voice speaking softly at night.

"Is she the one, then?" His tone was teasing, mocking, as if to suddenly regard George as the close friend he was, and not the stranger he'd put him up to be. For as much as George did care for him, he could never claim to understand him, for his mind didn't tick nor unravel, it bubbled and ebbed and cried.

"No." George told him rather firmly, pushing past him and into the kitchen. As much as he'd denied the pretty girl's offer of breakfast, he was still hungry.

"What was wrong then? Tits not big enough for you?" He was in too much of a good mood for the morning; George couldn't help but doubt him. The two stared each other down with long dubious eyes for a moment more, letting the silence grow stale around them.

"Alright yeah, whatever." George finally snapped, putting a slice of bread into the toaster. "You want some, Jesse?" He turned back to face him, watching as the absent face of his friend turned to the ground with a soft shake of his head.

"No, but seriously..." He trailed off, watching George intently as he fumbled around the kitchen in search of a rather makeshift breakfast. "What was wrong with her? Chelsea said you were all over her last night? Or was it a different girl...?" His laughter was too bubbly, malleable almost, as if he'd shaped it himself.

"I don't know." George drew out a bitterly honest sigh, waiting forever for the toaster to pop. "I was fucking... off my head. I don't remember shit. There was this girl, and in like the middle of the night, I thought she was the moon, stars, fucking everything in the sky, and she took me home, and we probably fucked, or something like that - I put my clothes on in the morning at least. But in the morning, she was just... just a girl. And I climbed out the window before she could drag me downstairs and make me eat breakfast with her."

"Out the window?" Jesse snorted. "Classy, George, classy."

"Yeah, whatever." George shrugged it off, hastily buttering a slice of toast - struggling with a lump of butter that was both too hard and too soft at the same time; nothing in Jesse's house was ever quite right, after all.

"Suppose Chelsea would say so." Jesse took the liberty of perching himself on the end of the kitchen table, legs dangling down and feet scraping against the tiled floor. "I mean. She's... I don't know what your deal is, but she's... I mean, other week I swear she just fucked me to get back at you."

"And you fucked her, still?" George held Jesse's gaze, feigning surprise.

"Yeah." He bit back a smirk. "Course. Gotta keep you on your toes and all that."

George leant back against the fridge, plate of toast in hand. "Keep her, mate. I'm not fussed. I'm done with her. We're friends yeah, but I don't... have feelings for her."

"Sounds like a lot of bollocks, but alright." Jesse concluded, honest as always. George didn't bother arguing otherwise.

The air grew still, leaving Jesse to watch George eat his breakfast as he smoked his last cigarette down to a stump, dropping it slowly to the kitchen floor. George stared but he didn't say a word.

"It's that boy, isn't it?" Jesse had watched George for what felt like forever before words escaped him. George trembled, eyes wide, watching that forever unreadable mind twist, and turn, and scheme.

"What?" George placed his empty plate onto the side, watching Jesse carefully.

"That boy. What's his name?" Jesse continued: over-confident as always.

"I don't know." George continued, lost amidst the messy tracks of Jesse's mind. "What is his name?"

Jesse laughed, rolling his eyes. "Oh fuck off, George. You know the one. Chels' been on about him. You moped to her. Think she's jealous. Shame you're not interested. Think she is."

George shook his head. "She's not, Jess. She's playing you too. She's lovely, but god, she does just want to sleep with everyone."

Jesse gave a shrug. "Can you blame her? She's got her life sorted out. Smile at some poor guy, flash her tits and she's got whatever she desires. I mean, she's pretty. Can you blame us for falling for it?"

George decided that he didn't want to sum his friendship with Chelsea into the same regards that Jesse had; stupid as he might be, he still something else - after all, girls weren't all just tits and lies.

"Anyway..." Jesse continued, his eyes pinning George back to the fridge door. "This boy. You know who I'm on about. Don't play dumb. It's him, isn't it?"

George slowed, picking at his fingernails, letting his eyes cascade to the floor. Desperate as he tried, those same curls were forever destined to cross his mind, forever he watched the same smile, eyes dark, set apart only by flecks of gold: the very beginning of a sunrise.

"His name's Matty." George drew out a sigh, throwing his head back, eyes up to a familiar ceiling: cracked, rotten, decaying. "And he's straight."

Jesse remained silent for a moment too long: it almost seemed as if he cared. The illusion was something George sought to dissolve himself into - to close his eyes and never return from. He wanted this to mean, something, anything. He missed the boy, with the smiles, and the curls, and the truly fascinating mind.

"Do you mean 'straight' or straight?" Jesse got to his feet, crossing the kitchen to fumble through the drawers, setting aside knives and forks for the tin of weed stashed at the very back.

"What's that supposed to mean?" George watched him: only half-way convinced of anything he had to say. Still, he was careful not to upset him, especially as he opened the tin of weed, rolling out a joint on the kitchen counter.

"Is he... heterosexual, or is he straight because he's young and scared and society is narrow-minded and he's never seen anyone else's cock before?" Jesse's nonchalance held up as something to be reckoned with.

George remained silent: head lost somewhere away from the kitchen, from the knowing looks in familiar eyes. He wanted out. He wanted calm. He wanted cool autumn air. But he stared out the kitchen window and watched the flowers blossom in the spring.

Vacant eyes well noted, Jesse held common decency up high, and passed the joint into George's hand. Not a word was said of the gesture, but the looks were long, hard, and slow; their relationship was a difficult one.

"I don't know." George concluded in all honesty, lighting up the joint and drawing his worries out in thin wisps of smoke.

"Then it's probably the latter one." Jesse finished for him, rolling himself up another joint. "Does he look like a twink, or what?"

George's eyes widened - a little taken aback. "No one looks like a twink- that's-"

"George... you know what I mean... it's nine in the morning, I'm not going to think of a better way to put it." Jesse pushed himself up onto the countertop, wrenching the window open further as he began to inhale.

"I don't know..." George trailed off. "A bit. Kinda. He's not flamboyant. But he's small and skinny, and he wears jumpers and I think his cheeks are always pink. He's cute. Like actually."

Jesse thought for a moment. "Let me meet him."

Somehow, George wasn't entirely convinced. "Yeah, maybe not."

"What? I'm nice, me. Fucking hell, George, I mean... what am I gonna do? Not like-"

"I don't know, Jesse, I don't know." George drew out a sigh. "I think... things are a bit fucked now maybe. I was kind of... a dick to him."

"Well done." Jesse rolled his eyes, smirk twitching at his lips as George shot him the finger in response. "Why, though? If he's so sweet and perfect and-"

"Shut up." He shook his head, taking a moment or two just to smoke, just to think. "He has this girlfriend who he hates. So I told him to break up with her, and he keeps saying no - that he can't do that, so I ask why. And it's because he doesn't want anyone to think he's queer. Because he's 'scared' of the word... and what it fucking means."

Jesse snorted. "Let me meet him - I'll show him something to be scared of, sort him out-"

"No, Jess, no." George shook his head, burying his head in the palm of his hand. "Let him be, alright? I don't think it's his fault, I just... I don't know."

"I mean you made it pretty obvious you're a big old fucking queer, yourself, didn't you?" Jesse couldn't help but grin. "So, try and make it up to him. Long as he's alright with you, seems as if he's had a think, maybe changed his mind about things."

George shook his head. "It's not worth it. I can't be bothered. He's just a boy." He repeated in a desperate attempt to convince himself as such. "I just need something else. To take my mind off him."

"Well..." Jesse drew out a smile, getting to his feet. "I've got you covered."

George raised his eyebrows. "A job?"

"Yeah." Jesse snorted. "Alright, don't shit yourself - nothing big. Few pills, that's all. You're gonna be fine, long as you're not a fucking idiot." He reached into the back of the kitchen drawers and placed a small plastic bag of pills into George's palm.

"Yeah..." George drew out a sigh, staring down at them for a little too long.

"It's what happened with Cam, isn't it-"

"No, Jess, I don't- I don't wanna..." He shook his head, finishing his joint and stubbing it out into the ashtray. "Point is to get my fucking mind off it, isn't it? So shut up, mate."

George stared down at the pills, before finally shoving them into his jacket pocket. "Where are these going then?"

Jesse lit up with a smile.

-

Perhaps it was guilt in the end. That took him there. Feet moving of their own accord.

It had been a slow morning but a slower afternoon. George wished it all behind him, and still he clung to the warmth of the night. He spent minutes, he spent hours, wishing for a face that would look the same in the morning light.

Amongst everything, George had a strange relationship with his own heart. Then again, guilt was forever a funny thing. Funnier still for a boy with a whole world to hold onto, but nothing ever managing to drag him down - that was the trick you see - your feet couldn't sink into the ground, the earth couldn't pull you under as long as you kept moving forever.

That had been George's plan. Not that he'd had much of one in the first place. Everything was always very circumstantial, and every decision was not a decision made sober. Still, George had the ludicrosity to trust his own whim.

But it had been empty houses, stuffed up lungs, and forever stares, different girls, driving in somebody else's car, and then this. It was too permanent. But it was okay. It was home. The kind of home George had sought to run from.

He wondered why he stayed. As he watched the sky and tucked his thoughts up in clouds of smoke: sent like curses up to the skies. He could just run, after all. It could be his last day, his very last afternoon. His last deal. Their last conversation - hardly much of a goodbye. A grotty kitchen, joints, a slice of toast.

George sometimes thought he liked Jesse. But he knew that wasn't it. Because he was sober sometimes. And truthfully, George didn't like any of his friends very much when he wasn't on drugs. But really, in that state, George didn't like himself very much either.

It was the drugs.

He should have taken the pills and run. He should have said goodbye to shitty towns, and complicated girls, and a whole winding world of friends that drew impossibly fine lines. But nothing was ever easy. And really, Jesse bought those crisps he liked. Sometimes even with his own money too.

George made a promise to himself to bide those thoughts goodbye as he let nature surround him. Instead, he stood still, and focused on fresh spring air in the place of tar. He gave beauty its recognition, gave the moment what it deserved. He felt safe, but home was beyond him.

Tracing fingertips against tree trunks as he walked, a winding path down a dirt trail, nature stretching out as far as the eye could see, George let himself get lost. He could feel the high dissipating; sober was grim, sober was cold, sober hurt, sober spoke too many truths, and still George clung to lies.

Still, in the middle of the woods, George looked up at the skies and imagined a world in which he didn't have to pretend to be brave. But he looked himself down, and under all these clothes - under Jesse's jacket, and second-hand jeans, he couldn't find himself anymore. He smelt like pot, but felt like nothing at all. And burning, scalding, like an imprint, lay a stranger's hand on his thigh.

He thought of the pretty girl, who'd once belonged up in the night sky. He hoped, at least, he hadn't made her cry.

Then fate tugged. From one end of the great rope that was life.

George had spent years playing tug of war, but that day, he relented; he drew himself inside his chest, and let the world yank and pull whatever good it could find out of him.

Fate played a bitter hand. It fit well on George's forlorn eyes: blinking up slowly as the trees cleared and the afternoon made itself apparent in more than golden rays of sunlight.

He swallowed hard and tried to turn away. Yet for every door that George slammed shut, fate opened a dozen more; he played a hard game, but the world would always prevail.

Frozen, he couldn't deny that the moment was finite, and through dark eyelashes, he caught a cold, kind of direct sunlight. For before him, skin pale, curled up into a ball, sat the winter sun - forever hiding his face. He'd missed that warmth, for it was scarce and distrusting, but still, it didn't taste the same as it had in summer.

This wasn't a game that George could play. This was a boy that George knew better than most, but still, knew nothing about at all, for his mind wound itself around him like vines, and George stood like a ship capsized - fate finally caught up to him, and he felt his feet sinking into the ground.

But George was not the one that slipped. George was not the one that began to fall.

It was a lurch: eyes blown wide, realisation hitting like a bomb, and with the impact, with incredible, fervent force, a skinny body snapped in half, with only time for dainty little frozen-bitten fingertips to curl around rusty rail.

George watched, eyes wide, as this beautiful boy - the one who he'd watched as the sun, felt right out of the sky.

His face grew red, knuckles white, panic in his eyes: struggling to pull his other hand up to the railings, for he struggled there, dangling up in the air - like a puppet, like a prize, somehow so far up above the water below.

George watched him and time came to a slow.

This time fate seemed exempt, or at least it sat back and took the front row seat, leaving panic to run like fire through George's veins: setting off momentary flames like sparks. For in that collapsing, forever moment, the walls of reality seemed like that of a house destined to fall.

He made quick work of the distance, despite the sudden weight to his feet, dragging them through the air as if his boots were leaden, as if to the leather back of his jacket, were a thousand tiny hands clamped, and tugging: dragging George back beyond, into the darkness nothingness beyond the trees.

Yet once all seemed to prevail, his destination served no solution, as in the chokehold of the afternoon air, George stood, eyes wide, up at the boy - panicked and struggling with even the air in his chest.

With arms extending upwards, the moment snapped. Still, with the wind and water rushing through his ears, the world real again, thinking in real time, George couldn't quite reach him.

There was a world in which he had. There was a world in which they were safe. There was a world in which this was easy. But that was a world in which George had stayed. The world in which they were happy, the world in which things were easy, was the one in which they had not met at all.

Still, it was George's due to pick up the pieces.

He stared up at the boy, looking younger now than ever. He called it his own fault, for that was what it was. But swallowed hard, put himself together, and tried to act the two years older he was.

"I'll catch you." George's voice was too calm to seem real; he distrusted even his own lips, still he was grateful that at least one cell in his body seemed to be certain of what he was doing.

Mistakes were made by the multitude that afternoon, but the pinnacle of it all was Matty looking down. Air itself eluded him, knuckles growing whiter too, as fingers came close to slipping entirely.

"Trust me. I'll catch you." George held his gaze, desperate to soften the panic in those impossibly dark eyes, frozen over with fear beyond his comprehension.

"Trust you?" Matty laughed: feeble, body shuddering in mid air as he did so. "I-I... I don't... think so." His voice was a whisper: a forced struggle.

"Look at me, Matty, come on, it's not like you can stay there forever." George eased his lips up into a smile. It was a gesture that Matty did not care to mirror. "It's not as far as it seems. I'll catch you."

"Fuck." Matty inhaled as deeply as he could: fighting against lungs that worked as if to reject air entirely.

There was a part of Matty that wanted to give up entirely, to die like that, hanging still there; George could see it. Yet there was a part of George, stronger, fiercer, that wouldn't let that happen.

"I'll catch you." He repeated, louder this time, letting his words echo through the trees as if to serve some form of warning - to anyone, to anything out there that might have thought otherwise of him.

This was guilt. In a way. For Matty was beautiful, and George was not quite so cold-hearted as to base things entirely as such. But there was a world in which he had gone back for Cam, and that was a world in which he was not standing underneath that bridge.

Matty landed in George's arms with a very definite thud. The world seemed to fall backwards itself with the impact, but George pulled his arms around Matty's back and held him there tight, letting him press his face into his chest.

He steadied himself. He steadied the two of them there, letting Matty's curls fan out across his chest. Still, with two feet on the ground, his body shook, and with fingers tracing patterns into Matty's back, he was lost for what else to do.

For this was his fault. Forever. Still. For there was a world in which Matty was not okay. And that mattered. It mattered in the way Jesse would have laughed at, and for a moment George was back in that kitchen and everything seemed simple and maybe even nice. For that split-second, George remembered the comfort of the high.

But Matty pulled away. Just a little bit. With wide, startled doe eyes staring up at George's own. He seemed impossibly smaller still, with gentle fingertips brought down to hang limp over George's hips.

"You're okay." George told him - it felt like something he needed to hear.

Matty managed a smile, but nothing more.

George didn't know what to say to a beautiful sixteen year old boy who looked very much on the verge of tears. He knew, however, how to light a cigarette, thus that had to do.

Matty closed those soft, wary eyes, and let dark eyelashes flutter onto reddening cheeks. If that was not trust, George did not know what it could be.

Still, he struggled with the weight, with the truth to it all. He didn't know this boy at all, and still, with arms held tightly around his back, he felt Matty's blood beside his own in his veins.

George dared to wonder if he could feel the same.

He received no answer, no clear conclusion, but Matty parted his lips slowly, and let George slot a cigarette between them, bringing a lighter up between them, and burning out their distance in a cloud of smoke.

It wasn't until the air cleared that eyes, hazel as they caught the sunlight, flashed back at him, like screeching car headlights, raining sirens in his head, but still, his heartbeat slowed. For all they could do was breathe, and finally, that was easy.

"I'm sorry." George uttered: lost for what else to say.

Matty's eyes dilated as if truly looking at him for the first time. Still, he couldn't figure George out. Not a single word slipped his lips: silence dragged on eternal, leaving them there, far too close, as if spellbound.

And then, the word seemed to snap, as if curling in over itself, and George's hands began to tingle with the sudden realisation of just where they lay, as if it was Matty himself that was burning holes into George's palms. Still, he held them there gently, he held Matty there, not with a soft courtesy but with everything he had.

"This is my fault." He told him, words soft-spoken, like morning dew, settling slow, to fade away under the reign of the sun.

Matty didn't say a word; he just watched him, eyes wide, unreadable, but poised as if to extract every bit of soul right out from George's eyes.

"Course it was going to fucking-... and you shouldn't- you shouldn't have been here without me." The possessive tone to George's words was one that surprised them both.

He expected Matty to step back, to break everything that bound them together, practically stepping on each others' toes, to stare at him with that wild look in his eyes. But Matty did nothing of the sort.

"What? Worried about me, were you?" As mocking as he intent was clear to be, the genuine curiosity in his words was unmissable.

George drummed his thumbs against Matty's back, pulling his hands up to cover his shoulder blades, but still, this was a conversation they had to have in words, as much as they'd never been George's forte.

"Yeah." Honesty served George poorly, but the situation seemed to look a little better. "Course, you were like..." He gestured back up to the bridge with his eyes. "Falling."

Matty scoffed. "I didn't fall until you told me to let go." His eyes remained on the bridge above: the light behind them flickering slightly.

"Yeah, well..." George flushed red, unsure of what to make of himself at all.

"I just slipped, you know..." Matty explained, speaking with his hands, still, as they rested up around George's shoulders.

"I made you, though, didn't I?" George reached one tentative hand away from Matty's back and stretched it up to relieve his lips from the cigarette. Their cigarette, perhaps, as George put it to his lips and for that moment bade it as his own.

"Nah." Matty shook his head, almost playfully. "I made myself slip, I was just... surprised to see you."

"Surprised to see me?" George gave way to a genuine laughter. "In my place-"

"Your place?" Matty's eyes widened, glancing around at the trees.

"Yeah..." He admitted, vermillion cheeks in tow. "This is like... where I go... when I need... to think, I guess."

"You took me here, though." Matty's words were placid, mind unreadable, with eyes staring up into George's.

"I did." George gave a nod, desperate to escape the unwilling pressure of Matty's gaze.

"I don't think I deserved that... if this is your place, and..." He threw his eyes frantically around him, hands slipping from George's back. "I don't want to... I don't want to... interrupt, to... get in the way of your life, I don't know... get involved with you..." He took a breath: deep and baited. "If you don't want me to."

George had this boy hook, line, and sinker, and still, here he was drifting away. For, despite himself, George let him. It was easy, it had always been, as long as it was all pretend.

"It's fine." George assured him, rubbing his hands over Matty's shoulderblades. "You're fine. And... and... I'm sorry, for... whatever that was before."

"No..." Matty shook his head, cheeks searing as he finally tore away. Eyes thrown to the ground, feet sinking into the mud, the truth finally made itself known. "I was... I don't know... ignorant, yeah?" He stole one fleeting glance up in George's direction.

"Yeah." George had to agree, taking a step back himself - the situation seemed to command it. "I mean, the word 'queer' itself makes no sense to be scared of, but people who are going to give you shit for it, because they think you are, whatever... that's yeah, something you can't help fearing."

"I'm not fucking scared of them." Matty retorted: eyes wide, suddenly ablaze, meeting George with more courage than either of them had expected.

"You don't show it." George was honest: heart strewn apart by the distance, taking a drag of his cigarette - no longer theirs.

"I'm not sat here crying about them - I've not run here because of them, I-"

"If you weren't scared of them, you'd dump your girlfriend." George told him, simply, calmly, taking a step closer. "But you're not going to, because you're scared of what they'll say, and that's okay. But you have to know that's going to make you unhappy."

Matty remained silent, head hung low.

George crossed the distance between them, cigarette extended out in a shaky hand. "Think about it. Is it worth it? Maybe you should face your fears."

Words eluded them both, but still, Matty's fingers curled in around the cigarette - shared once more. The air seemed to warm up a little; George closed his eyes and pretended there was such a thing as home, there were four familiar walls to count on, more than just old bedsheets, more than ashtrays on every windowsill.

"It's my friends really." Matty admitted, as if speaking more to the spring air, to the oak trees, than to the boy before him.

George didn't force an explanation, instead he stood in silence as Matty slotted their cigarette back between George's fingers.

"Why I came here. I needed to think. I needed to breathe, and I- they're like desperately worried about me. To the extent, that it's just... bullshit. Because I'm fine - I know I don't look it, I know I could have died like ten minutes ago, but I'm fine, I'm just-..."

"Just what?" George dared to prompt him.

Matty spoke with his hands: extended, tentative, waiting.

Gaze distant, tracing patterns in the mud underfoot, silence reigned above all.

"Scared."

Eyes leapt to meet George's eyes, wide beyond belief.

"Of what?" George prompted, overtaken with concern: mind working in a way he failed to entirely comprehend.

"I think maybe of myself."

Matty drew out a sigh, taking a step backwards. "Like falling from a height you didn't know existed."

George watched him, carefully, disappearing off into the trees. Stupid, arrogant, infatuated, he followed him, quickening his pace to a run.

"And what does that mean?" George called out after him, curling his fingers in around Matty's wrist, and pulling him to a halt amidst the trees.

He stared up at him with eyes wide, flecks of forest green, flecks of distant sunlight - a passive gold. "Like..." His eyes darted: desperately scanning George's face for answers. "When and how we will die? Those questions, some things you don't want answers to."

George shrugged, smile creeping over his lips. "That's subjective - I'd love to know."

"What?" Matty frowned. "When you'd die? But you'd just live your life, counting down days - terrified, unable to stop it. That's the thing, it'd be like a limbo, like you're hanging there helplessly, and-"

"Funny thing is, my life already feels a bit like that." George hid his secrets well with laughter, but despite his smile, Matty still regarded him with concern.

"George..." He drew out a sigh.

"No, look, it'd be... you'd have an end date. Say? Sixty. You knew you were gonna die at sixty. And I'm eighteen now, that's forty two more years. Suddenly everything's more finite, and maybe I wouldn't just spend time sitting around and getting stoned - maybe I'd do something, maybe I'd make something of myself. And there's the thing - what's fear anymore? Jump right off that cliff and see how it goes - you've got another forty two more years anyway. I'd like that."

Matty couldn't deny that he'd never thought about it that way.

"You'd need that wouldn't you? The definitive truth that those little fears you face, they're really not going to kill you."

George laughed, stupid enough to convince himself that there was more to this boy before him, that maybe Jesse was right. He was forever over-confident, and it was forever all too late - laughing with joy until the very moment it all fell to pieces.

It bore little concern in the moment, with wildfire eyes, and laughter that could echo for miles. But of course, he'd pay the price. He always did.

-

hey guys

hope u had a nice christmas/ holidays / whatever

hope ur all well

votes + comments would be cool

lov u very much