A/N: Well, hello to everyone again! Here is another installment of Tearing Me Through, which I have to admit, I had difficulty writing, seeing as it was a pretty eventful chapter! To all those that have reviewed, thank you very much, I appreciate it majorly. Rita-Lyn, I like the sound of you, from what I've read of your profile. You seem like an intelligent, analytical sort. Your query on the kid who was formerly into hip-hop? Well, I can assure you that he was not revealing his true colours by changing his style, as his attitude did not change whatsoever, as he was still as petty and arrogant as when he was when donning the "hip-hop" (i.e., NED) style. It just goes to prove that however you dress - whether that be in baggy caffeine pants, scarfs from H&M or hell, even capes - doesn't always reflect on your personality. But thank you, that was a good point here, it did sound rather ironic in that case.

To Someone, yeah, I don't think you necessarily have to be a "goth" or a popular sort to be able to relate - it's more relevent to do with the personality types, isn't it? I would agree, though - I think Gavin is the more shy, reserved character out of the both of them, but there are other dimensions to him that Rich may not have. I like how you always leave long, lengthy reviews - I like good ole' typographical mind streams! :D

To Kanilla, I'm glad you enjoy my story. Although "I crave more of this misery, pain and hurt" sounds very masochistic, doesn't it? xD A bit like Gavin's character! Well, I enjoyed reading your insight, and I'm glad the story's captivating some emotions in the readers. To me, that's a great achievement.

Well, anyways, I better get on with the story! Let's roll, shall we?

Chapter Twelve

Thursday morning.

Five thirty.

Heaving all my weight off the surface, I stagger out of bed, wiping smeared eyeliner and sleep from my eyes, my legs quivering as I stumble through my bedroom, the surroundings around me a muted blur. I lurch towards the bathroom, voluminous in its white acrylics and pastel blues as I reach feebly for the tap. The hot water spouts, a crystalline tail of liquid as it starts to fill the base of the bath tub, a curling trail of steam flowing from the water as I head for Emily's room, gently unfolding the soft, beige duvet from her face as she lay in her slumber, without a single stir. Her soft golden brown hair spread out like a fan on her pillow, a soothing smile on her pearly pink lips, her usually rosy skin a pallid aquamarine in the lighting of her bedroom ... She was so peaceful, so tranquil in her slumber.

It ached me for how she would wake up ... possibly to another day attending a social experiment for people to be "educated" while dividing themselves into tribes and avoiding those who didn't abide entirely to the rules of what was regarded as idyllic behaviour at school. It ached me that this routine of human behaviour still continued up to this age. Another glance at her sleeping pleaded that I never wanted her to wake up. I never wanted her to experience her everyday pain of being ridiculed for her incapability to communicate in certain social areas. I never wanted me to experience my everyday pain. But unlike her, I have no reason to complain. Hell, what am I saying? Emily doesn't ever complain about her disorder or use it as a crutch. She can't define or perceive it, as she is unaware of how a neurotypical would behave. And I don't know how a "mainstream" type of person would behave anymore, either. I have grown up with barely any adult conscience, my father murdering himself and my mother being so absorbed in her own torment over the aftermath of his death.

So where do I exactly comment? Softly, I murmer to Emily something around the lines of "bath," "ready," and "five minutes" as she tumbles onto her side and yawns delicately, her tongue poked into the back of her teeth.

I softly creek into my mother's room, a darkened cave of a room with burgundy draped curtains enclosing around the circled, thin-panelled windows while she lies in a heap of crumpled beige cotton and stained bedsheets. As I lean closer, the stench of cheap wine, camel cigarettes and morning breath rise from her mouth, her crinkled lips pert as she curses under her breath subconsciously as she grips closer to her duvet. Placing a hand softly on her shoulder, I whisper, "Rise and shine, Mother." Her skin is like a 1950's bag made from crocodile's skin - once considered luscious and desirable, now worn, rough and scaly with pores. She had been so worn down from the distraught of Father's death that she cannot bring herself to get employed, to help Emily about the house, to help me ... it's appalling how she uses his death as a crutch to escape all trivial everyday circumstances. It's amazing I'm bothering to wake her up, I'm usually more lazy. I usually get up around six.

As I make out the figure of a small girl's wrapped in pink cotton stumbling to the bathroom, I register that Emily is ready for her bath and quickly dash to turn off the taps, as I mix in the cooler water on the left while it gradually gets hotter on the left, in order to assure that it's reasonably warm for her, and make sure not to slip in some lavender oil, as her hair will be horribly greasy. Leaving Emily to close the door as I leave, I throw on all my essential clothes for school and slope downstairs. Entering the kitchen, I ponder breakfast, lifting up some rice cakes and some Instant Nescafe Coffee ... but that familiar voice rings in my head: "Gosh, Brenda, you're not getting a bit overweight, are you?" Trembling, my lungs clenched together, my veins drained and my stomach a tight fist, I decide against it.

I hear the familiar scuffle of the postman shoving letters through the doorflap and drag myself lethargically to the hall to collect them. There is one addressing me: Mr G., Barlton Avenue, Dewsberry, Buckinghamshire. It's from the Bank of England, from registering with the crest. I barely skim through the first two words, as I bring myself to the living room, perching myself on the window sill. Eyeing up the dingy, copper roofs that are lightened slightly by the sun rise of dawn, a pearly peach rendering to pastel pink, I can vaguely make out the shape of the steeple of the local church, a towering architectural God that is domineering in its appearance rather than the beliefs advocated inside. Knowing the preaching that endures inside, it tarnishes the simplistic beauty of the elaborate architecture. It is the last thing I see before I feel it coming ...

The first erection in the morning is cold and rigid, an unsatisfactory experience that causes me to shiver and to coil up into a ball as I arch myself against the the window, its icy surface pressing against my back, causing me to shiver violently. It's unpredictable and intense, and usually unwanted in these circumstances, and often they occur because of Him ... even when I try to deter my mind from fixating on Him, He always has that posession over me, the dominance to manipulate my thinking, to reign power and control over me when I least expect it.

Alan keeps insisting that if I keep concerning over Him, He will have more power over me, but I have this gut feeling, this little indication that deep down, He's thinking of me, that He's going out of his way to pursue some form of a relationship with me, no matter how twisted, how unorthodox, how tainted it reaches ... somehow, maybe it's just another delusion of mine ... but when he softly said to me, that Saturday I was at the Dewsberry Gardens, "I wouldn't mind if I were ..." somehow made me come to the conclusion that maybe he wouldn't perhaps mind being in a relationship with me ...

Or maybe my mind is just playing tricks with me again, leading me down a path for no pot of gold to find. Maybe I'm placing myself under the delusion that there is some form of a relationship between me and Rich. Perhaps everything's just my own paving, in order to have some sort of phantom fufillment, which if I took out to real life situations, would lead me bruised and back at the same position that I was before. As Emily makes her way into the living room, tugging at the sleeves of my cord jacket, I can distinguish the shapes of school children running down the pavements excitedly, giggling, chatting, taunting playfully and chirping as they descend down the lane. It depresses me that one day they'll no longer be protected by their parenst and will be introduced to the big bad world, where expletives are tossed like confetti, relationships are reliant on social status or attraction and integrity goes to waste. I am scarcely aware to the fact that I am getting hard ...

The second erection is a tense, harsh experience, like a fire drill. At least I'm aware of it happening, but it's not an enjoyable experience. As my mother call down to me something around the lines of "being a doll" and "bringing Emily to the bus stop" I quietly nod along and agree. I had grown so use to her lack of commitment to her own child that I have taken over as the father figure. As I take her hands, small and soft like petals, we embrace the cold, emrbace the long-winding roads as we stroll down together, her hand tightly clasped into mine, her teeth chattering and her cheeks pinched by a rosy flush as we stroll past all the distressed middle-aged fathers charging past in their Mercedes cars, all the twenty-something frat boys hurling abuse as they zoom past in their Vauxhall Novas, the huge exhausts chugging by, intoxicating the air, the gossiping mothers throwing bemused looks at us, the little children giggling and jeering and the pupils by my bus stop ... oh, dear, God ...

... He's there, and he looks absolutely radiant in the rising sunlight, as his cheekbones are accentuated by the light and strands of his gelled, golden hair hang delicately in his face. His green eyes are luminous, his hair glistening, his school uniform ever so elegant, with his collar slackened slightly and his navy blazer slung on in such a debonair manner. He then catches my gaze and gives me a slant grin as he casually snakes an arm around Holly Gardner, her sidling up to him as she throws a pleasantly surprised glance up at him with her wide, blue eyes. I feel the weight of my heart start to sink in, my stomach deflating, the entire weight of my body anchored to the ground ... he's clearly involved with someone else. Either that, or he's just playing me along, like he usually does. A small yellow dash, followed along with a green one ascending in the distance tells me that me and Emily's buses are shortly on their way. Briefly kissing Emily's cheek goodbye and squeezing her hand, I headed with dread towards my bus, slowly clambering to the top and scanning around for my usual haunt at the back.

I curl up against the bumpy, plastic beige seats and murmur hellos to Mona and Sabrina as they reply with a vague wave, then they both sit in front of me and Mona begins to rant about some lecherous twit who made sexual advances on her at a club ... I try to get a word in edge ways, but they continue to talk over me, and basically there's no space for me to speak whatsoever. Eventually, I give up and slump further into my seat, realising that any attempt to trigger any form of conversation is bound to land me nowhere, as they are both so caught up in their own gossip ... I feel the weight in my body deflate slightly, mu muscles tensing, my mind numbing ... the bus around me darkens into an incomphrensible blur of navy and peach, the blood thinning in my veins, almost as though it is being filtered from my entire body ... but a small shake of the head, a jutter and a shudder and my vision gradually clears, the tone warming up.

This has became a recurring pattern for me, recently; I have small attacks of faintness where the weight in my body is lifted, the blood in my veins thins and my vision is dimmed, as though my life, soul and blood is being filtered very slowly and tantalisingly out of my body ... and then the blood comes rushing to me again, my vision clearing, everything resuming back into position. These have been based on my eating habits - before I would force myself to regurgitate in order to rid of any excess fat to be consumed incrementally. But now when I do so, the food gets stuck in my throat, my stomach starts to swell and the fluids inside start to coagulate an insoluble, disgusting substance, and I face the mirror to see a repulsive, overweight beast reflected back, and I wonder how Rich Stafforn could ever love, let alone tolerate such a creature ... so then I'm back in the bathroom, my back arched with my finger down my throat in order to rid of the excess that has consumed my body, forming additional fat to an already malformed frame.

I have spent most of my time in the music base rehearsing Hurt by Nine Inch Nails on the piano for Charities Week; it wasn't my idea, in fact I protested against the idea many times until Alan convinced me it would be a good use of venting my frustrations. He's right, to a plausible degree; it will portray me in a different light to those who scarcely see me as more than the angsty goth boy who is rumoured for wearing blood as a fashion statement and fucking his sister. But it won't prevent the circumstances affecting me outside school, outside the everyday ritual of "learning" in order for narrow-minded pupils to learn socially rather than academically.

Despite my continuous rehearsals, Alan still begs me to spend quality time with him, Mona and Sabrina in the Art base. But what he doesn't understand is that I need entire perfection; to be able to reach it to such idyllic standards, that I can prove to everyone, to those who ostracise me for petty idiosynchracies what lies behind the a supposedly incestuous outcast, in order to break them, for them to see who I really am ... and for me to see who they really are.

The music base is a nice place for me to rehearse. There are keyboards aligned immaculately to each side of the room and the electric guitars and the amplifiers are tucked into a corner, their vibrant colours muted in the dusky daylight. It is a poky, square little room with flock wallpaper of a crinkled crimson, with articles based on the school's musical achievement, advertisements for royal concerts and music pages of all the greats - Jimi Hendrix, Buddy Holly, Elvis Presley - adorn the walls, while the beige ceilings are sprinkled with musical notes that were painted on last year. At the front of the classroom is a dinky little white cabinet made of solid pine with a plywood back, containing records of the pupil's attendence, biographies of famous musicians and CDs to guide pupils to "play along with the legends." The most eye-catching feature of the entire room is the piano. It has a smooth, sleek bronze wooden case that curves in and out ever so delicately, with the legs elaborately designed to emulate the shape of totem poles. The keys are slightly stiff, but they can be manipulated by the pedals underneath to create a much more distant and haunting tone when I press my hands upon them.

I need to make this perfect. I am too busy to have friends, so hell, how would a lover help? That would just add on to the complications of my life. So for now, that is out of my agenda. I can deal with these situations by myself. I can go alone. Solo. Hell, even J.D Salinger, despite my indifference to his literature, lives a life as a hermit, isolated from everyone else in a perfect bliss where no one can affect him and he won't make an impact on anyone else. I wish I could reach those standards; where He wouldn't affect me, and I wouldn't affect Him. I'll take these matters on my own terms ...

I think I could last a week without someone to hold me ...

I think I could last at least a week without someone to hold me ...

I bet I could last at least a week without someone to hold me ...

Won't you hold me ...

Won't you hold me?

"Erm, hey ... Gavin?"

"Umm, hello."

"Sorry! I didn't realise that you were in here."

"No, it's okay; most people don't. Last time, a seventh year popped in here, you'd have thought he had a fucking coronary, by the expression on his face!"

"Aaah, they're vulnerable, timid creatures, the seventh years. They're not used to seeing the Nocturnal Rogue during his working hours, it can be rather mentally scarring, I'd assume."

"Heh! You're certainly a charmer. I wonder where on earth you come up with these nicknames for me. You're more creative than I imagined you'd be."

"Ah, likewise! "More creative than I imagined you'd be?" Don't underestimate my frazzled, tangled up mind, Mr Black. I'm not exactly sitting there going "Oooh, pretty flower. Oooh, pretty lady. Oooh, pretty Shakespeare ... mind can't process! System failure! System failure!" Ha, you really don't think that's what's running through my mind all day, d'you?"

"Ahahaha! Awww, Christ, I was just assuming, because, I don't know. I mean, you're sort of gregarious and sociable, but I don't ... I don't see you expressing your creativity outwardly, if that makes sense."

"Oh, that's where you're wrong there! I'll be performing in Charities Week; we're the sixth act. Hell, we're even doing a number off a musical. There! That'll show you our creativity!"

"Seventh act ... I'm performing straight after; I'm the seventh."

"Ah, is that why you're in there? Rehearsing?"

"No, you've just got used to my new-found love of isolating myself from everyone else for the hell of it. C'mon, what d'you think?"

"Aha, nah, I understand. It's okay, I'll leave you to it. Don't want to distract you, would I?"

"I really don't mind your company, but I acknowledge your concern."

"All right ... bye, Gavin."

"Bye."

The door shuts.

He won over me again.

My heart rate is mortifyingly high - a thousand beats per second, I'm breaking out into a perspiring fit and I'm unsure whether I've memorised the notes correctly, whether I'll hit the exact notes, if I accidently slip and fuck up the entire performance; whatever direction it leads to in order, it's 12:01pm in Thursday afternoon of Charities' Week's talent show, the first act has just begun and I'm already shitting myself senseless. I'm unsure whether I'll be able to remember the opening notes at this rate - wait, no, it begins with D ... F, D, D, E ... E ... oh, fuck it; I've rehearsed the song to such an extent that I'm tiring of memorising the lyrics in my mind. I'm sure I'll be fine, once I enter the wings, place myself on the piano, it'll all come flooding to my head, and I'll be able to pour the music out of my system, into the audience, into an unsuspecting crowd of judgements that will perhaps waver once this last dance has died down. I slide into the changing rooms with a gym bag containing my clothes for the performance, all pastel painted stony walls with rickety wooden benches aligned by each side of the rooms, where most of the pupils are rehearsing for dances, doing vocal exercises for solo acts or just generally mooching around, gossiping.

I find an array of bewildered looks are exchanged before I slip into an empty bathroom and change into one of my father's grand white shirts that was slightly ruffled at the collar, with exaggerated large cuffs and black ribbon lace around the collar. I slip over an old black, tailored garbadine blazer over my shirt and let my trousers fall to the ground as I pull up my favoured bootcut black jean standing up. I can't bear to sit down when I change, or else my thighs will spread out and look like large slabs of uncooked meat against the surface; I can't bear to have a glance at the mirror, or I will face the repulsive beast, expanding day by day, by every laboured breath from my drained physique. I scrub my face thoroughly, washing away all the charcoal smears from double Art and apply a small amount of eyeliner. I quickly escape the den, where I conceal my body from everyone else's wondering eyes, and check my digital watch for the time ... 12:07pm. Oh, fuck. Everyone's supposed to have a three or four minute slot, so this must mean we're onto the third act ... I feel my pulse rate increase and my muscle tense as I desperately seek for the lyrics ... aww, fuck - I know them, why should I be so concerned? I've listened to the song over thirty times, at least, memorised the tune, the lyrics, the music, the notes ... so why should I fret over this minor circumstances?

"Hey, Gavin? Are you all right? You look a little anxious."

I swivel around to face a petite girl, around five three, with a compact make-up set, kneeling down and applying some blusher onto a ninth year as she squints her face uncomfortably, vaguely recognising her as Rich's former girlfriend Selina; or so I heard from Mona. She looks slightly worn down, her curly black hair sticking out to the left and plum-rimmed bags under her eyes as she is wearing a conversative take on the Barlton Lakes uniform - fitting black jumper, a pencil skirt that accentuates her curves and a garbadine blazer loosely hanging over as she applies some eyeshadow as the little metallic turquoise sprinkles shower down and touch the ninth year's nose, causing her to wrinkle it as she sneezed slightly. "Think you've missed a spot," the ninth year murmurs, as Selina blots at her skin with blusher. Selina takes note on this and quickly wipes the girl's nose, before she turns to face me. "So, I take it you're performing, then? What are you doing? Song, performing in a band? I don't see you as much of a dancer."

I chuckle weakly. "Heh, yeah, I can't really adjust myself to dancing! I mean, sometimes if I'm at a club, but I feel slightly disconcerted dancing in public when there's millions of people I know. Just ... makes me feel disorientated, I guess. When there's a club, you barely know anyone, so you feel carefree and uplifted."

"Ah, very true! I sometimes find school dances awkward. So many eyes watching you, y'know?" As the ninth year scampers once Selina adds some matt pearly lipstick for a finishing touch, she then mutters under her breath, "I hope he's not been bothering you too much recently."

"He? Who?" Oh ... oh, fuck.

"Rich. I know he has caused you a great deal of trouble this term, which I find particularly unusual as he's never one to cause many people that much harm. He's always been good grades, good friends, good outlook on life in general. But recently ... I've noticed a change in his behaviour that'll probably affect you more than it affects me. His grades have been slipping, and he's not been as attentive to his friends than usual. And from what I've seen, he's clearly doing damage to your well being, so I'd avoid him if I were you. Be careful."

Trembling with anticipation, anxiety and to add to that fear, I wasn't particularly sure how to reply. Considering that she has dated Rich for at least five months, she had probably a lot more insight to his behaviour than I did. But hell, obviously they hadn't lasted too long, had they? So perhaps she was giving me this additional warning in order to repel me from him, so she would feel less threatened by any interaction between us. So, why should it concern me? As much of a right she has to be bitter, maybe I shouldn't take her words to heart, because, perhaps, she perceives me as a block in reconciling her relationship with Rich. And of course, who wouldn't feel threatened by the idea of a former partner rebounding so suddenly? It implied that your absence meant little to them, after all.

A small smirk quirks at the side of Selina's mouth as she eyes up the schedule placed on the walls beside us. "Oh dear ... Act Four is described as "performance art" by a group of seventh years ... under the alias "Fight." "

I can't help a snort of laughter as I scan it. "Christ. Fighting is considered talent?"

"Seems like the people running this show are so desperate to have any form of contribution to they'll let in anyone, just to fill in the empty spaces!" A small chuckle escapes me and then I hear some scuffling through the corridors and a, "Owwwiiiieeeeee. You broke my foot. That's not the rules, ya nugget."

"Yeah, you're supposed to put him in a headlock and I'm supposed to hold his legs up so he can't escape."

"Why are y'all ganging up on meee?!"

"'Cause you're the smallest."

"Soddin' prick! Shut up!"

"No, you!"

"Shut up, both of you!"

"Oh, Jesus," Selina grumbled, "I apologise for this inconvenience. I'll have to cater after those eejits." As she quickly scarpers down the corridors, the hem of her jacket flowing fluidly, to help escort the quarrelling quadro on stage, I notice from the corner of my eye Alex Halligen holding a can of hairspray, his normally mousy brown hair a nauseatingly dark copper red as he intoxicates the changing rooms with the fumes. Bloody hell, he looks ridiculous; there is dark cerise eyeshadow smeared across his eyelids as smudged kohl circles his beady grey eyes, snakebites seeping in too hard to his puffy lips. His outfit is even more worse for wear; he's wearing a fishnet shirt over his black wifebeater that flops over his torso loosely as his red plaid bondage pants scarcely hang onto his scrawny legs, causing him to hitch them up with his school tie. I attempt to muffle a smirk, and turn quickly to conceal any signs of derision; but he catches my eye, and stalks over to me, glowering - but his plans to intimidate fail as he can barely walk in his fluorescent Converse as they're two sizes too big. He's sauntering like a cowboy with chlamydia! It's hilarious.

"Got a problem, mate?"

"No, no, no; in fact, I've no qualms with you making an absolute ass of yourself on stage whatsoever."

"Fuckin' faggot. Our band have rehearsed for ages, we'll be fantastic. What 'bout you? What are you doin', "performance arts" like those seventh years? Otherwise known as slitting your wrists?" Halligen's pale, glassy eyes demand an answer as he screws them up in disgust, scrutinising me as the snarl placed on his lips broadens, canine teeth exposed.

"I don't even slit my wrists, Halligen. I find it pathetic that you associate the whole gothic subculture with self-harm. Don't make assumptions on subjects you don't know very well."

"Ah, haha, says the guy who wore blood stained trousers to school! Where d'you get 'em, Black? Fucked your sister when her menstrual cycle had just begun?" The snarl that that drove me to attacking him many times was flashing, and I was straining to assure that I wouldn't rise to the bait, knowing that he relished any form of reaction whatsoever.

Cheeks flushing, fists balling, temperature rising - I struggle to compose myself as I growl back between gritted teeth, "Funny how you like to give graphic description of me and my sister's supposed sexual relations; it makes me wonder if they reflect on desires of your own."

Halligen's face fell.

Something hit home.

Fiddling with his hairspray can, his eyes averted to the ground, Halligen shuffled towards the mirrors, deliberately attempting to avoid any eye contact with me whatsoever, where Nara Ire, Danni Brampton and Avery Burke were standing. Nara were dressed in torn, baby doll dresses in royal blue with olive green puff caps and heavy kohl and smeared indigo eyeshadow, her waist-length bottle black hair contrasting to her olive skin, while Danni was decked in a tangled bundle of pink fishnet and PVC, her multitonal, layered cut of brown, blonde, black and blue clashing with Avery's choppy light brown bob. He, like Halligen, was wearing eyeliner; but looked marginally more masculine in comparison to him - in a tight dark brown V-neck with the slogan of some underground band I didn't recognise, and denim drainpipes with Chuck Taylors ... marginally, mind you. From where I was standing, I could hear some murmurs of, "that ... sort of hurt ..." and "why didn't you rip off his head like you usually did?" A regretful reply of, "... it's just one of these things that's best to be concealed ..."

And then something hit home for me.

I quickly scanned the schedule for the performances and recognised Rich's name on the sixth act, along with Holly, Nick, Max, Ed, Jessica and several others, my heart skipping a beat. Rich was doing a musical number, of course - he would, knowing the extrovert he is. And the more I'm reading over his name, again and again, I wonder if Rich's in these changing rooms right now. I wonder if he's changing into a fresh outfit for the show, ripping his shirt off, exposing his lean, firm torso as he fumbles around for his clothing, possibly discarded in some grubby gym bag ... I wonder if he's probably rehearsing somewhere, exercising his vocals for the performance ... and I wonder if he's scrutinising the list of performances, too, wondering what on earth Gavin Black is going to perform? Maybe he'll be successful? What does he look like when he changes?

Does Rich have a good singing voice? He must, to have the audacity to go out and perform in front of the entire school district. I bet everyone'll comment and say his was the best act. He captivates the audience's attention often and laps it up in his own pride. I wouldn't be surprised if he was still receiving compliments on his performance in sixth months time. He's certainly not one to dissolve into the background and flow with the majority. He's certainly not like Halligen, to crave any form of attention whatsoever, and go out with a messy, discombobulated bang. As I notice Halligen hissing something at Selina irritably dragging back the Seventh Years into the changing rooms, scolding them under her breath, I then notice a familiar fleck of golden blonde hair and my hands go clammy, my heart pangs and my eyes dilate ...

No, not him. Just some boy in Eleventh Year with a similar hairstyle. As he scurries off into a changing stall, I capture the sight of Holly in a black ra-ra skirt and a white, long-sleeved chiffon shirt that accentuates her silhouette nicely, while her dirty blonde hair falls to her shoulders in soft, groomed curls. Fuck. For an introverted bookworm, she looks lovely tonight. If Holly's going to be performing dressed like this, I would certainly fear for Selina's one girl mission to win Rich back. I hear a little cough and I turn to face Ed, smirking foppishly, his gaze directed at Holly, brushing his fingers through his scruffy blonde hair in order to appear tousled and attractive, pouting his plush lips; only to achieve looking more impish and petulant in the process, his lips fixed in a more fishy gurn than full. Smirking to myself slightly, I relaxed myself against the walls, contemplating how I'll walk onto the stage, how I'll address the audience ... the notes of Hurt I'll begin with ... and whether I'll be able to reach the notes, will I? And ...

An inaudible shriek from the stage violates my sea of thought, as a drilling of drums and amplified electric guitars crash into the most hideous, roaring, incomprehensible thrash I've heard in a long while. Ed and Holly exchange sly grins, their lips tight to stifle their laughter. "God, think that's Halligen," Ed mutters, shaking his head pitifully as he peered out down the corridors, a few others following him. I move myself to where they are standing to get an eyeful, and God, what an abomination to music! Halligen is flinging himself wildly all over the stage, screeching in a piercing rasp and shuddering heavily as though he has a seizure. Poor, poor son of a bitch. After all those years I let him hold some sort of dominance over me with his snide, ignorant comments, his "accidental" pushing and shoving and his invasion in my personal life outside school, I hadn't recognise that behind it all, was a bloodcurdling voice intolerable enough to make a banshee cry.

"I knew it was a bad idea for him to be performing. They need more practice!" Holly sighs exasperately, slapping her palm to her head. Ed rolls his eyes and checks his watch, just as ...

Sweet Jesus.

Rich has just left the changing room, and fucking hell, he looks absolutely dressed to the nines, in a tailored black suit, his thick, golden hair freshly washed and for once not gelled backwards as it flops elegantly into his eyes, his smile absolutely radiant, even in the obscured lighting of the changing rooms. Holly lets out a small wolf whistle while Ed grumbles under his breath enviously, as Rich slides an arm around Holly, sheepishly grinning at her, causing a flushed pang to hit my chest. I ... I'm unsure whether they're in a relationship or not ... but to display this, in front of me ... and Rich certainly appeared to have caught on to when I had said, "I wouldn't really mind if he was ..."

" ... my boyfriend? God, no, Ed. Don't jump to conclusions! We're just pals, all right?"

Ed is gurning moodily, unconvinced as Holly giggles at his expense. "Just because we're performing together doesn't mean that we're performing certain antics elsewhere," Rich added, wiggling his eyebrows towards Holly. Ed then bursts into a theory of how friendship evolves to friends with benefits and that leads to romance, when halfway through he is interrupted by a coarse shriek, echoing from the corridors. There is a small silence between the trio before they burst into peals of laughter.

"Bloody hell, is that ... whatshisnameagain? Halligen's band?" Rich scratches his head slightly as he catches Ed's glance.

"Yeah ... they're called Erosion of Eden, I think. I think the song is entitled something like Immersed In Isolation ... Part One."

"Christ. He really takes himself seriously as a musician, doesn't he? Pretentious git." The wretched mutilation of the metal genre continues to thrash ungainly in the background. Rich then catches my gaze and then saunters over to me as another unintelligible scream echoes from the hallways ...

"Ha-Aaaaaah caaaaaannnnaaaa seeeeeee maaaooooon-keeeeeeeyyysss!"

"... a can of sea monkeys? Is that what he's saying?" I shake my head, bemused at the train wreck that is occuring on stage.

"Beats me. Anyway, feeling ready for your performance?" Rich leaned against the wall next to me, as I inhaled slightly, trying to compose myself.

"Sort of. Kind of. Well ... not really."

"Listen t'me, all right? You'll do okay, yeah? Don't - don't get too nervous, all right, just - just go in there, like Muhammad Ali. Y'know, whenever he had a boxing match, he would always plan out beforehand what moves he would make on his opponent, when he would swing a punch, what he would proceed to do afterwards. Basically, you have to have that sort of mentality, knowing when you'll call all the shots and when you'll score. I know you'll do well. You've been working hard." He then observed me slightly, eyeing me up and down. "Nice outfit, by the way. Sort of ... nineteenth century Victorian bachelor. Grand and sophistocated, but with dark undertones."

"Umm, eh ... thanks! I like yours too ... sort of y'know, 1920's public schoolboy. But older, of course. I mean, I'm not saying that's bad, it's just very preened and clean-cut. It suits you, though - it goes along well with your whole Golden Boy attire, I suppose."

"Golden Boy? Is that how you perceive me? Because trust me, I'm anything but golden!" Just as we heard a reluctant applause echoing from the hallways and footsteps scuffling along the ground, and with copper red hair smeared in front of his right eye like crude oil, Halligen and his lot had finished their butchered attempt at a performance.

"Fuckin' amazin' performance," he boasted, to anyone who would listen. "They were practically screamin' for more." Fortunately, Halligen was unaware of the smirks me and Rich exchanged when he headed off to change back into his school uniform, along with his other bandmates murmuring in disappointment. "Could have been better, I s'ppose," I heard Avery grumble under his breath.

"Well, this is our cue, I assume!" Rich laughed haughtily, as he watched Ed puff out his chest and prance around in front of Holly, his upturned nose wrinkling as he attempted to do an impression of his sister. Unfortunate to him, Jessica, in a pink chiffon shirt with a black tulip skirt, her dark wavy hair curling around her shoulders, was right behind him and smacked him upside the head, causing him to wail raucously. "Jessica, you big massive meanie. Why must you abuse me so? Why?"

"'Cause you're a big massive plonker, that's why," Jessica growled under her breath, causing Ed to recoil with fear, scampering down the corridors, along with Steven, Nick, Jacob and Max. All of them were embellished in tailored suits and groomed hair - Jacob had his spiky blonde hair combed back for once and was wearing a garbadine navy suit, whereas Max was wearing a tailored scarlet coat over his black dress shirt with crimson jeans, his dreadlocks tied back into a ponytail. Nick had combed down his usually unkempt, bottle black hair and was wearing a black waistcoat over his white dress shirt and black garbadine trousers, and Steven was wearing a white one piece with a cornflower blue shirt underneath, making a complimenting contrast to his olive skin and wavy dark curls. For the group of everyday, slacker schoolboys that I had grown up with throughout the years, they certainly were taking this performance to heart. As Holly stepped out of the changing rooms and headed down the corridor, along with Jessica, I then felt a hand upon my shoulder. I turned around to face Rich, as he then reassured me, "Good luck, Gav. And remember; think like Ali, yeah? Hope that works!"

Softly hearing him turn and leave, listening to his footsteps descend in the corridors, I then heard the commentator introduce their act: "Now, ladies and gentlemen, this act protrays a more inventive streak through the choice of performing a musical number, from a particular favourite of mine, Annie, Get Your Gun. May we introduce - Nick Yorkshire, Jacob Harrison, Max Benton, Steven Briggs, Jessica and Ed Willson, Holly Gardner and Rich Stafforn!"

As the familar song began to play, I stepped into the corridors, to hear the vocals more clearly ...and good God, was I right: Rich was a fantastic singer. His vocals were generously smooth and fluid, amorous enough to seduce any female and melodic enough to enchant the audience. And Holly's vocals were also wonderful - I was astonished that such a petite, unassuming girl had such a powerful voice - she practically belted out her entire breath to the entire audience and when they reached the line, "I can hold any note longer than you," I was amazed that she hadn't passed out from holding on for what appeared like hours. I held myself against the walls, just appreciating the delicate sound of Rich's voice floating through the hallways, penetrating my train of thought and invading my daydreams, sedating me to a sense of security where his voice lulls me to ...

Applause.

Oh, fuck. My turn.

Did I still remember any of the lyrics? Would I be able to remember the first notes? What if I got banana fingers when playing the piano and I completely mutilate the performance? That would be a waste of time, considering how much I had mesmorised every note, every verse, every pause ... no, no, wait - remember what Rich said about Muhammad Ali. I'll approach the stage, bow to the audience, play the introduction notes - D, F ... D, D, E ...

"Now, we will be having a more intense, piano piece by a sixth form student - playing a song by Nine Inch Nails called Hurt. Please welcome, Gavin Black!"

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit.

Trembling furiously, my heart rate increasing as I stumble towards the stage, the profile spotlight fixating on the piano. I hear distant murmurs of, "That's a Johnny Cash song ..." and laugh internally, but feel no need to correct them as I place myself by the piano, wondering how on earth, in front of these million gazing eyes, these many pre-judgements that have already been ingrained, these little slips I may make ... I feel myself perspiring, sweat trickling down my forehead as and then I remember a faint, distant voice echoing at the back of my mind: "Think like Ali, yeah?"

It all floods out.

The notes, the manipulation of the pedals, the lyrics all start to flood out as I begin with D - F - D, D, E - E and continue from there, what I had been revising for so long finally coming to use as I began with, "I hurt myself today ... To see if I'd still feel," my arms and legs continuing to quiver with anticipation as I pressed onto the keys, pressing down what had felt like years of rehearsals, years of practice in order to make one performance utter perfection. I soften the edge of my voice, to sound vulnerable, although I sound more like vulnerability has won me over, and somehow I have appeared to capture the audience's interest, as the skeptical murmurings have quietened down. I even fabricate the original tune and from my extra rehearsals, as the pace of the tune gradually formed into allegro as I frantically ploughed my way with the key bed, coarsely singing, "And you can have it all ... My empire of dirt ... I will let you down ... I will make you hurt ..."

Continuing, the tempo begins to gradually slow down as I break into the second verse, aware of the millions of eyes boring into me, my body violently tense as I softly let the music flow, my voice harsh and raw in the mist of curious eyes, delicately plundering in as I continue to croon, "I wear this crown of shit ... On my liar's chair ... Full of broken thoughts ... I can not repair..." I use minor keys to portray a more sinister edge with my left hand as I intensify the pitch of the higher notes, my hands crawling all over the key pad, elegantly tinkling in the pitch silence of the audience with gazing eyes; I use this to my advantage, as I fasten the tempo and break back into the chorus, and then, I see a small shadow of a person in the third row, their mouth in motion, mouthing along to the lyrics - a flood of encouragement triggers me to sing louder, my once suppressed voice broad and intensified in the bare silence of the audience as the piano is no longer a tool I am steering to success, but a part of my altogether - instead of manuvering it, has full control of me, and I am singing along rhythmatically with the notes that gently shower down as the audience's interest has increased and their mouths are partened with amazement, their eyes alight with fascination and with little touches to the face of anxiety, perhaps in case they relate to the song. But what amazes me is that they're no longer a judge to disprove, but they are another tool into dictating my performance, they are encouraging me, supporting me, rather than reducing me to a quivering wreck.

I have reached the end of the second chorus, and instead of leading to the third and final verse, I add a little solo piece, just to tease the audience and reel them in, eager to see what other tricks I have up my sleeve, as the sound of distant, tinkling keys floods the assembly and eventually, and gradually reduces to slow, timid chords. I then reduce my voice to the same softness, murmuring, "If I could start again ... A million miles away ... I would keep myself ..."

"I would find a way."

The last line is spoken. I bow then quickly exit into the wings, still trembling from the anticipation that had been building up within me. Slowly, and at first I consider it might be reluctant, there is an applause. And when I crane my head around the wings, it grows greater. And the lights grow brighter. And I hear a distant call of, "Did fantastic, Gav," and turn to face Alan facing me with a lopsided grin as we head from the wings and down the corridors.

Exeunt.

Today is a Dress As You Please today, and I'm just two minutes late for English and am heading my way to the door. I'm quite pleased with the outfit I'm embellished in - black cigarette pants with a long, black trenchcoat of drill fabric and a silver silk V-neck with a murky brown bucket hat, my hair ever so elegantly mussed up in its usual explosive state and my lips are painted in my favourite navy shade, my eyes outlined with kohl. Entering the classroom, I catch a glimpse of golden blonde hair and a slant smirk and my throat goes dry, but any dwelling further into my state is cut off by Mr Hammerton's monotonous drone interrupting my stream of thought.

"Mr Black, I see you're going for a rather, umm, Nick Cave look today."

I chuckle politely. "You listen to The Bad Seeds?"

"Well, I do actually, and my wife also enjoys them! She's got all their albums. I take it you like them, then."

"Ah, yes. They're one of my favourites, actually." Jesus. I never knew that, out of all people, Mr Hammerton was a Bad Seeds fan.

I slump into my seat, fidding with the crucifix around my neck, fingering the black beads as my index finger trails upwards. Catching a glimpse of the golden hair again, I gently imagine how it must feel to be able to run your fingers through that hair ... to be able to comb that mane, gently skimming over his scalp as you brush it backwards, clutching onto it as you gently bite into the crook of his neck and ... oh, fuck, I'm going into a tangent here, aren't I? I still remember when he ran his fingers through my hair. I'm still unsure whether he was just attempting to comfort me or sooth me, but either way it was so intimate coming from him - we had never really exchanged anything more than scowls and scathing remarks, but a lot has changed over the past few months, and somehow, I feel we're becoming more close than I ever imagined. He certainly looks beautiful even today, wearing a cordovan blazer, a dress shirt and black jeans as he gently drums his fingers onto his desk, and swivels around to face Max and Nick, as they mutter something into his ear, causing a few sniggers to escape from his mouth as he turns back to focus on his work.

We're writing a draft on the book we've chose for our personal study. I've chosen I Lucifer by Glen Duncan, and am actually really enjoying it. It's about Satan being given the chance to live in a human body for a month, as long as he doesn't inflict any harm onto anyone, and if he lives a virtuous live, he can finally return to Heaven. However, the person who's body he's living in is a depressed writer on the verge of committing suicide, but in his body, Satan gains a lot of money and begins to live a hedonistic lifestyle. It's brilliant, so far, and the question I'm using for my personal study is, "How does the author express his opinion on a certain debated issue (i.e., politics, religion, environment) throughout his/her novel? Elaborate through choosing three of the following key aspects - characterisation, first narrative, plot, setting, imagery and symbolism." It was quite difficult to choose at first, as it was deemed unusual to choose I, Lucifer as a study for a personal essay, and even Mr Hammerton recommended that perhaps I should pick another book instead, but eventually I wormed my way around writing about it. Out of those six key aspects, I chose first narrative, plot and setting and headed from there.

We have finished writing about Catcher In The Rye, much to my relief, and have moved onto Hamlet, which the majority of the class find a lot more fascinating, but I smile internally to myself as I had already read it beforehand. Still, I am much more appreciative of this, as I know the entire script inside out and during Tenth Year, performed in the school play as Horatio. This, however, caused an unsatisfactory result to my attentiveness to my family as by the time I had returned to the house one evening after afterschool rehearsals, Emily had nearly burnt the house down by attempting to cook, and Mum claimed I wad the culpable one, as I was supposed to supervise her and cook for the family.

What was more horrifying was that Mum was in the house at the time, so shouldn't have she at least attempted to take care of Emily? Sometimes I needed to vent my emotions through expressive art, so why not performing arts? Mind you, she wasn't exactly in a wholesome state herself, after several glasses of wine, she was horribly aggressive, her croaky, coarse voice now a rasping, rippling roar and had stained the carpets with red wine as she staggered through the hallways, clutching the bottle as she flung open the door, slurring profanities as I entered, screaming, "Why weren't you here, Gavin? Emily nearly burnt the fucking house down, where were you to help her?" And I, straight after the play had been finished, went back to my usual routine of catering after Emily twenty four seven for the remaining of Tenth Year.

The bell has rang, now, and it's the end of period. Wow, time flies quite often, doesn't it? Packing my belongings into my black rucksack, I head down the corridors and towards the Art base to meet up with Alan, Mona and Sabrina, when I hear a cry of pain coming from the boys' bathroom - I then step back, confounded, wondering what could have possibly happened? Maybe someone had a rough accident in gym and are washing the blood from their scraped knees? Or maybe it's just a heartbroken pupil sobbing in a cubicle as his girlfriend or love interest has hurt or rejected him. Either way, I feel as though I should investigate, just to make sure. Hmmm. This whole idea of responsibility is new to me. Somehow, even though it's only my first year, I feel as though I might be just genuinely molding into my expectations as a sixth former.

Urgh, I should have reminded myself of the horrendous stench of the place before I entered - it reeks of cum, piss, shit and wind, and often there's some grubby little tenth year at the urinal, attempting to write his name in his own piss. It's a horrible, dingy area, the drywalls a pallid arsenic with indistinguishable stains while the murky stony ceilings a lumpy ecru, the ceramic floors gristled and cold. Seventy five percent of the times I've entered it's likely that the exit doors are wide open, giving a chance of a breeze to swarm through the cubicles and run down your spine, which is why I often avoid the bloody place. An eleventh year with a ridiculous bleached mop of wispy hair grins impishly at me, and eyes me up and down, smirking. "Gavin Black, right?"

"Yes ..."

"Did you perform Hurt on Charities' Week?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because, that was, like, ohmigod sooo deep and angst-ridden, you should really invest in a career as a professional whinge," he gasps mockingly and mooches past me, sniggering under his breath. Prick ... another reason for me to avoid this shithole. As the gasps become more audible in the distant murmur of conversation exchanged at the urinal, I then move closer towards the set of cubicles ... I am absolutely sure I've heard that voice before ... the voice seems to be coming from the cubicle beside the one right at the end, and instead of sounding like dry sobs, or stabs of pain, it sounds more ... gasps of arousal. Holy fuck! Someone masturbating in here?

As I gently knock on the cubicle, I hear another laboured breath escape and I instantly recognise who it is, my heart racing. "Rich, you all right?"

"Erm, I'm a bit busy -"

"Well, that's clearly audible, I s'ppose!" A weak chuckle punctured soft, brief breaths as I heard him desperately grabbing at the toilet roll from inside. "Having a bit of trouble in there?"

"Yeah, I am, actually. Got any toilet paper I could borrow?"

I quickly dash to any empty cubicle and tugged at the toilet roll from beneath the fitting of aluminium and polyester and head back the the end, where I slip the roll under the cubicle door, averting my eyes in the procedure. As I bring myself to my feet, I hear a shuffling noise and ruffling paper being dabbed and I lean against the drywalls, heaving the weight of my shoulders onto them.

"Thanks for that ... well -," another short breath escaped his mouth "- I better get back to mopping this, umm ... mess up." I hear the bell ring and from the corner of my eye recognise flocks of boys scuttling out of the bathroom, muttering comments about stuffing toilet paper in the urinal. I realise that we have gym next, but I've rather stay here for now, just to assure that Rich's in reasonable condition. I then inquire, rather bluntly, "Are you having an orgasm?"

"No, no. Attempting to ... urgh, this is mortifying ..." I hear further frantic dabs and short breaths. "I've had this rock hard stiffy for what's felt like hours, and now I'm completely drenched in, well ... y'know."

"So you'd been trying to rid of it?"

"Yeah, but this erection still won't go away, it's really bloody irritating. And it's embarrassing; it's quite easy for anyone to distinguish what it is, so they assume you're turned on by them, and you can't just walk around with this big lump and pretend that it's nothing." As I hear a few more frantic dabs and groans from the cubicle, I then query him a little. "Are you a virgin?"

"Um, why do you ask?" There was a tinge of skepticism within his voice.

"Just curious. You seem sort of unaware of the whole sexual procedure. What were you doing, where you thinking of Holly or something?" I add playfully, as I hear further dabbing.

"Oh, no, no! No, I wasn't. Umm, yes, I am a virgin. Why? Are you?"

"No."

"Slut," I hear mockingly through the cubicle. "Who was it with?"

"Oh, God," I mutter, brushing my hands through my hair. Christ. What was I doing, confiding to him all my secrets in such circumstances? "Don't ... don't spread this around to anyone, okay? It was, around Eleventh Year, with this girl called Amy who I was dating. Needless to say, it wasn't as fantastic and wonderful as everyone romanticises it to be."

"Amy - Amy Littlewood, yeah? You guys used to date, didn't you? I remember seeing you walking around together, holding hands."

"Yup. We were together for about a year. Things started off really well, but ... it wasn't the most satisfactory experience. She - I don't know, maybe I'm just a cynical bastard, but she kind of tried to mould me into her idyllic partner, what she wanted rather than just appreciating me for who I was. She hated Mona and Sabrina, she was always paranoid they were discussing her behind her back, and she was freaked out by Alan, as he apparently gave her the "heebie jeebies." She then kept insisting that I stopped having lunch with my friends altogether, and hanging around with the people she wanted to befriend, which was Nara Ire, Halligan and that lot. And every time I reluctantly gave in, he would always mock me publicly and vilify me by not living up to my girlfriend's expectations."

A derivitive snort echoes from the bathrooms, as I hear a ruffling of papers. "Why was she wanting to hang around with Halligen, out of all people? He's just an arrogant, obnoxious pig."

"Yeah, exactly, but apparently his lot were being very friendly and inclusive to her, as it was rumoured he had a soft spot for her but didn't want to approach her himself, so he got Nara and Danni to befriend her and such. Amy wasn't very popular, she was a bit quiet and reserved, so it probably came off as a bit of a revelation when they started talking to her. But, as y'know, I can't stand Halligen and Amy thought this was because I didn't want her to make friends and wanted to keep her all to myself, when in fact, I just despised the little shit for his smarmy little comments that he delivers on a daily basis. So, when I've sacrificed my duty to having lunch with my friends, looking after my little sister after school and living more myself as I have to stay by her side twenty four seven, catering after her friends, her needs and her desires.

"One day when we were walking home from school, Halligen must starts to make these spiteful comments about my family. Kept jeering, over and over, "Goth Boy Gavin's a barmy, baleful bastard!" and Nara and Danni just sit there, cackling, while I kept tugging at Amy as she waved at them pathetically, grinning along. And then Halligen bawls, "Y'know, even your girlfriend would rather you would pay attention to her, instead of fantasising about your sister's tight vagina or your father's dirty, diseased cock!" And then, I just snapped. Like that. I charged after him and beat the living shit out of him, punching him the first time so hard that he initially started to bleed, blood gushing from his mouth as he shrieked in pain while his friends did fuck all to stop it, just gazing in awe while their friend was brutally beaten to the ground.

"And then Amy started screaming at me, "You bastard! You fucking bastard! I hope you rot in hell, because that's where you belong, you monstrous piece of shit!" And then she kicked me in the head, hard, when I was down, and when I finally stopped hurting Halligen, she chased after me and smacked me across the face, telling me I was a worthless bastard who didn't deserve to live as I callously subjected others to beatings so brutal that they were unable to breath to the blood seeping from their mouths. And then that's when Amy started to hit me. As the months went, she would slap me for saying things that offended her slightly, like, if I was helping her with her homework and if I said something along the lines of, "Oh, it's dead easy, weren't you paying attention?" I would get smacked across the face. And if I mentioned anything about Halligen in a derogatory sense, I would be hit.

"I then, urgh, just started to feel awful at that stage ... I couldn't talk to my family, couldn't talk to my friends and didn't have time for myself, as Amy had tidied me away from the world and kept me away from everyone. One day, I just couldn't take it. She asked me if I remembered to buy her cigarettes, and when I said that I forgot, she them smacked me again. "You're useless," she said. "Can't do anything right, not even something as puny as buying cigarettes! No wonder your mother's depressed, she has a retarded daughter and a pathetic, wheedling son." And I just, I don't know, I finally snapped. I just yelled at her, that how dare she make comments about Emily, or my mum, that how dare she try to sabotage my friendships with Mona, Sabrina and Alan by manipulating me into thinking they were excluding her, and how dare she force me to hang around with Halligen against my will and how dare she ever hit me when we were in a relationship. As I stormed out the house, I heard her bawling at me, telling me I was a sorry excuse for a partner and that she never wanted to see me step near her house ever again. And thankfully, I never will."

There is a brief silence, par the dabbing of toilet roll, and I wonder to myself, why on earth am I telling Rich Stafforn out of all people about these events? I never elaborated it to this extent with Alan when he found me at his doorstep, sobbing hysterically, after the messy ending to me and Amy's relationship, and held me while I cried into his shoulder. A few moments later, I hear a small snigger. "Wow. That's ... well, that's an experience. It's just fortunate that you, y'know, broke up with Amy before you, well, might have ending up breaking yourself."

I laugh bitterly. "I don't think Amy would have even given me the space to commit suicide, she would have wanted me to hear her slanders within my dying breath!"

"Good God. I've never really have a relationship that long. The longest I've dated a girl was probably four months, and that was recently."

"Yeah, but you're a bit of a ..."

"Man-whore? Probably." A small grin is audible from the soft laugh I can distinguish. "But I'd never pressure a girl into something she didn't want to do. The reason I've never actually ... y'know, lost my virginity, is because I don't take my relationships seriously, and to me, if my girlfriend at the time doesn't want to have sex, well, why should she? Relationships take a lot of time to develope, and as I'm young and immature, I'm just taking advantage of mucking around for now and waiting until I'm older to pursue an actual relationship." I hear further dabbings and then I hear a slight grunt.

"Oh, God. This fucking thing's still not gone! Gavin, look ... can you come in here, just a sec, help me a little." I hear the cubicle door unlock and I, gingerly, creep in as I see Rich, hunched up against the wall, clutching at the zip of his fly as he murmurs bashfully, "Okay, look, maybe this isn't a good idea ... I don't know. I just - I just need help to, I don't know, get rid of this thing." As he lets go, I look down to see an erect cock coiled up in his hands, as Rich starts to babble, "Okay, y'know what, forget it. I don't want to put any sort of pressure on you, you're probably not used to it; in fact, it'd be best for you just to -"

"No, no, it's okay," I murmur, closening in on him. "I'll ... I'll try, I s'ppose." As I gently place my finger onto the tip of his foreskin, it retracts, inverting itself as I trail my finger downwards, from the tip down to the shaft, as Rich breaths in. Unbuttoning his dress shirt and removing my trenchcoat, my heart rate increases, my body perspiring - hasn't this been what I've wanted to do in ages? Be closer to Rich, physically and emotionally, than anyone else? But I'm unsure as to what Rich wants to me: whether it's just someone to rid of his erection, or whether it's me he wants, to keep him company. But either way, I found myself tracing his torso with my index finger, leading from his pectoral muscles to his abdomen, outlining his muscles softly as his breathing became heavier and he clutched into my unruly spikes. Slowly, and gently, after several strokes, I began to jerk off his cock, pulling and pushing at it as I hoisted him closer to me by pulling at his back, pushing his body against my own.

As I softly ran my hand from Rich's spine to through his hair, I felt him biting into the crook of my neck, clamping onto my shirt with one hand and the other still entwined in my hair as his breaths become more brief and heavy, the friction between us increasing as one hand moved down from my hair and another up my torso, his arms now binded around my shoulders as I pumped him vigorously, his own body trembling anxiously as I felt small hot breaths against my neck and gently trailed my hand from his hair to under his chin, lifting it up so I could be face to face with his beautiful visage, his vibrant green eyes, his thick eyelashes, his Cupid's bow lips, his defined, prominent cheekbones and I - I kiss every part of it - his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, the cheekbones beneath his eyes ... everywhere but his lips, like Holden Caulfield did. If I were to kiss his lips, I don't know, maybe it would throw him off, maybe it would suggest to him that I wanted to further our relationship in a romantic sense. Everywhere I've kissed him, a family member, or a friend could kiss, in a non-romantic sense. But the way he still continues to murmur softly, heaving his weight onto me, melding into me as another breath escapes his mouth, suggests that he thinks otherwise.

"God, Gavin ..." I hear him croon, combing my hair with his fingers. "You don't need to do this -" another breath punctuated his speech "- but it feels ..." He trails away again, a moan escaping his mouth, as I continue to run my hand up and down his shaft while I continue, my palm damp from the sweat as I continue to manuver his cock gently, my hand gently pressing down his erect cock, as though I were to sink it into his pelvis and -

"Oh, God! Right there!"

Holy fuck, the orgasm is intense as my hand is drenched in sweat and semen, Rich moaning softly as he throws me the most mortified expression ever, and then, after a few more laboured breaths, a weak giggle escapes his mouth. He exchanges with me a sheepish grin with me as his cock begins to slacking, and he buttons up his shirt and pulls up his underwear, hitching up his trousers and zipping the fly. He picks up some toilet roll from the ground and rubs the cum off my hand, dabbing at his stained trousers and flushing the stained paper away.

For a moment, we just exchange a few glances, only parted by a few inches, before we embrace again, one of his arms curling around my shoulder while the other is underneath my arm, as I slip into him, too, my arms pulling him towards me as we stand there in the mist of the stench, our bags thrown to the floor and our jackets flung in a messy pile together. His cheeks and nose are a flushed red from the previous circumstances, but it appears adorable on him, even if it may raise suspicion. I feel his hand climbing up and down my back, rubbing it soothingly as I run my fingers through his golden hair, flecks of whispy blonde luminous in the reflecting autumn sunlight from the dirty, panelled windows. As he presses the weight of his body against me, pushing me into the cubicle walls, I feel a frantic pulse running through his chest, beating heavily as I stroke his hair once again. Assuring at our heads are at level with one another, I then whisper softly, "I can hear your heart beating."

This causes Rich to laugh coyly, his body shuddering as he does this, before his grip begins to slacken, much to my dismay. As the bell rings, he begins to frantically tug onto his blazer, throwing his bag over his shoulder and flings the cubicle door open to make an escape. Before he leaves, however, he stops for a moment, averts his gaze, and then mutters under his breath, "Thanks," before rushing out of the bathroom and to his next class.

"Thanks." Thanks ... thanks?

When you've physically and emotionally expressed your emotions for someone you adore, all you receive is thanks?