My Criminal Records Bureau check came through clean.

Only in my brightest moments of self-doubt had I really worried that it wouldn’t. Perhaps, somehow Sam’s death had made me unsuitable to work with children, on paper, despite the fact that nothing had gone on my permanent file. The verdict had been accidental death. I’d not been convicted of manslaughter, but when you’re holding everything together just barely, it’s easy to convince yourself that everything possible will go wrong. I genuinely don’t know what I would have done if they’d found some reason to stop me taking that job – some reason that would most likely lead to them taking Ewan away.

But things were fine. For the first time in so long I couldn’t remember, everything seemed to be playing out alright.

We’d come back from Ewan’s house with too much stuff really, though it didn’t seem like so many things when we were packing them up. Angela was right – we never would have managed on the bus. As well as bringing various games and books, Ewan had convinced me into allowing him the television and the microwave. I discovered the delights of mugs of warm milk to make up hot chocolate almost as soon as we got in the door, and had to go to the post office to buy a TV licence the next day.

I visited the lawyer without Ewan, armed with my passport to prove who I was, and signed all the paperwork they needed me to. It seemed ridiculous how smoothly things were going.

I even had a letter from the gallery I’d visited, which was not the outright rejection I’d been expecting. Richard Fuller wanted me to come in and have a chat when I came back to pick up my portfolio. He had an opportunity to show some of Sam’s pieces, he wrote, and if I had any pictures of him, they would set everything off very well indeed. He would be, he wrote, confident of sales, as he had a few ready buyers.

My gut twisted at that. I had reams of negatives of him, mostly undeveloped save for the single snap-shot sized images crammed into that hidden shoe box. I used to use up the last few snaps of film on him, or sometimes he’d be doing something I had to capture and he’d end up on the reel between a tube station and a row of cranes.

I knew immediately the kind of thing he wanted. I had two- three dozen of exactly the kind of thing that fans of Sam’s work would snap up. But I didn’t know whether I could do it.

Ewan didn’t realise my internal struggle, or if he did, he didn’t have any patience with it. He snatched the letter off me while I was still browsing through it, balancing out whether I could really bring myself to sell my soul.

“Awesome! See, I told you you’re great. You’ve got like a whole exhibition!”

Pound signs versus pain. I was locked in checkmate, but Ewan didn’t give me time to brood. He snatched my mobile phone up.

“Let’s have Neil round. And get coke, and chips and pizza. And Angela, and Jason – they can come too.”

“Ewan... wait.”

But he had his head down, thumbs tapping away at the number keys, writing out some message I didn’t even want to think about. I’d learnt pretty quickly that attempts to wrestle the phone from him only result in even worse messages being sent.

“Posh gallery wants Than. Getting pizza. Party, but for old people like you. Come so he’s not boring. Ewan.”

I groaned, but didn’t try to fight it. I didn’t want to celebrate anything – I hadn’t even decided what I was going to do, but explaining that to Ewan was too much to deal with just then. “Ewan, Angela’s working.”

Ewan shrugged, “So it’ll just be me and Jason. Doesn’t matter. I can have a friend over.”

“No, Ewan, you can’t. There’s not going to be a party!”

Ewan gave me a look. Unimpressed, a little pouted – exactly like a kid who hadn’t got his own way. Then he snarked at me, with slightly narrowed eyes and a ridiculously cocky smile. “Too bad, I sent it already.”

I gave a disgusted grunt. “Ewan. God. It wasn’t even a good invite. Jesus - he’s not old. I’m not old.”

I got another look, like who was I trying to kid?

Ten minutes later there was a message in reply asking what time he should come. Neil doesn’t really mess around.

Ewan’s pretty awful invite that I was slightly too embarrassed to change, meant that when I opened the door of my flat to Neil, after having buzzed him in from the street, he was standing there in a rather nice shirt, clutching a six pack of beer.

I won’t lie, I couldn’t bring myself to feel embarrassed for him. He looked really good and I was not about to start complaining. My scraggy old jumper didn’t exactly measure up, but his eyes only swept me over lightly.

Congratulations, he signed, smile just a little less vibrant than I was used to, but I didn’t get a chance to dwell on that. He tugged me into a rocked hug that made me want to crawl inside his shirt and stay there even as he walked us both a little way inside my flat. My face turned in against his neck quite naturally and the low tang of his aftershave made me hungry for more than pizza. He’d pressed his lips against the side of my cheek and that killed me just a tiny bit, because that really wasn’t where I wanted them to be. It wasn’t a normal hello hug. It made it feel as though he thought I was just about to slip away.

I cleared my throat, a little awkward when we pulled apart, not least of all because my jeans were altogether too restrictive suddenly.

“Ewan exaggerated,” I blustered, reaching to take his coat from him. “On everything. It’s not a party and the gallery... it’s just a maybe.” I rubbed my neck awkwardly, leaning past him to close the door.

I only realised I was mumbling when I noticed Neil’s eyes trained on my lips with absolute intensity. The gallery..?

He frowned and it became clear that he’d missed what I was saying because I’d shaken my head, turning away to the door as I’d spoken. I bit my lip a little when I realised I’d blocked him out.

“Sorry. Hands, right?” I tried a grin, but I was altogether too shaky about everything.

What about the gallery? Are you walking out of the job at school? His eyes forced closed sharply and he sucked in a cringe, looking away.

Sorry. I wasn’t going to ask that. This is great. Really great for you.

If I looked half as stunned as I felt, he could have seen it instantly. His question threw me. Even reading through the letter, with Ewan trying to convince me it was the best thing to ever happen, I’d not once thought about letting the school project slip.

Neil brushed off my hand passively as I made a clumsy grab for his arm. Talking with his hands makes me want to be more tactile, maybe more controlling when I need him to listen to me. Raising my voice would do not good, but I needed him to look at me.

“What? Neil... no.” My hands fumbled around badly learned signs and I know my explanation was painfully slow even though I pared it down to only essential words. “The gallery... I haven’t said yes. I have a contract. With you.”

Neil looked conflicted – the rippling tug of his forehead and his tightly pulled mouth let me know he didn’t believe me. The prospect of an exhibition held a bit too much shimmer, I suppose. I hadn’t fully realised before then that Neil is so wrong in the head that he thinks I’d walk out on him for a better offer. As far as I’m concerned, there isn’t one.

His frown stayed heavy and his next words were almost accusing. You can’t change your mind half way through. If you’re going to ditch us, then do it now, before you get involved.

While a party was the last thing I’d really wanted, I’d never expected to be having an argument in my hall.

“Neil, listen to me. I want this project.”

He shook his head, smile pulling out as fake as any of mine. You want a show. You want a good review in the paper.

He shrugged at me, letting his shoulders slump down heavily and then he blew out a sigh, giving the smallest headshake. Without signing anything, I knew he was saying it didn’t matter, that he was prepared to leave the subject alone. He thought he had the conclusions all mapped out.

It makes sense for your career.

Though I failed to interject with anything else, in my mind he was very wrong indeed. Honestly, I was stunned that he thought I would drop the commitments I’d made at the first hint of my career’s resuscitation. As much as he might have liked me, Neil didn’t think I was a sticker. He can’t have had a great opinion of my motivations, despite the willing he’d shown to try to help me make things right. When I realised that, I was stunned he’d taken my side against Ewan’s social worker.

I wouldn’t have done.

His reaction bruised my pride, but it also made me realise I’d done nothing to make him think I’d do anything else. He’d been the one fishing me out of a hole I was too far into and too used to being stuck in, that I hadn’t even been asking for a hand.

Although we watched films and ordered pizza and Ewan did his best to make us both laugh, the evening had an undercurrent of awkward tension. Neil kept firmly to the opposite end of the futon and halfway through the second film, I made use of the beanbag to avoid noticing the way he shifted every time I, even subconsciously, moved closer. Everything felt rather dry and tasteless. The world went grey-scale.

Ewan ended up asleep on the carpet with his forehead slumped down onto the plate containing his discarded pizza crusts. We’d had a couple of beers each. It should have loosened us up, but all it did was magnify the awkwardness.

He helped me ferry our plates and the other debris back into the kitchen. We juggled beer bottles and pizza boxes and the lack of conversation grated. All kitchens are laid out with a certain logic, which means that a stranger can come in and find the cutlery drawer and the bin without too much searching, but Neil took it to another level. He bustled in like he belonged, crushing the pizza boxes flat and stacking them and the beer bottles next to the bin, as though I recycled and that was where I always kept them. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even turn around when I stopped tidying up just to look at him.

Eventually, he pulled a weary smile, dusting his hands against the front of his jeans before offering a quick. I should get going.

Irritation is not the word. “Neil. Look, it’s late. You don’t have to-”

His sigh came out exaggerated and his eyes flared slightly wider, Work in the morning.

I could feel him pulling away, and we hadn’t even come that close. It got to me – really wound me up that he’d pulled me out of myself, got me to notice him and now he was convinced I’d just waltz off into the distance, like that kiss between us hadn’t been the breakthrough that it was.

“They want pictures of Sam,” I blurted – voice angry, words contorted and loud, spilling from my mouth in an anguished rush. “They want me to let fucking everybody see him.” My face buckled into a lemon-sucking grimace, and it hurt so much I had to grip the counter, nauseous and nearly folded double, but I hadn’t finished yet. “The life of the artist by the man who fucking killed him. And I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Neil can talk, or Neil can touch. Sometimes I hate that it can’t be both at once. I read the soft concern in the wrinkles on his forehead, and the sadness in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, he was holding me too tightly, nudging my face up so that I couldn’t hide it from him, even though I had tears blurring my vision. He shook his head, eyebrows lifting, letting everything float away except that deep, total concern for no one else but me, and I must have fallen a little further, a little deeper than I’ve ever done before. I tried to laugh and he echoed my smile, but his deep knitted frown pulled on again, showing me he still had things to prove.

He pressed dry lips to my eye and the tenderness made me not know where to look. His lips bruised the peak of my cheekbone and my throat burned with stifled tears, because he shouldn’t have been the one apologising, and I knew that he was. And he shouldn’t be forgiving me, because Sam was the only one who could. When he pressed against the dip of my neck, I couldn’t stop what happened next. It wasn’t conscious; I had no choice.

Closeness pulled me nearer still. When he straightened, we were eye to eye and something strong compelled me. Slowly, I pressed against him, lips crushing his like he had the power to take all the pain away. Desperation had me linking small kiss to small kiss, with my breathing ragged and tear-filled between each one, because if anything they made it hurt more. I needed some promise that he understood. My fingers gripped his shirt and Neil held on tighter, hands rubbing at my sides as he returned each brush of skin and lips with his own. Everything he did meant so much more than the words I know he would have used. He calmed me down, he slowed my kisses, elongated them, with nothing but warm hands and his breath against my skin and his tongue darting lightly to meet my own.

The pace of him told me everything would be ok. The way he kept his forehead pressed against mine, eyes glued together between each parting of our moistened lips made me know he’d help me through it. The way he kissed me like I was worth more than I ever have been, made me see the only thing he’d worried was that I was walking away.

Somewhere in that dense, speaking silence it switched to more than lips. For a long moment we stared at each other, just breathing, movements tiny, subconscious, just from heavy lungs and beating hearts. Everything ached. And this was pure betrayal, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted as much as I didn’t.

My deliberate fingers slipped the buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest and stomach by degrees. But his buttons were all I could see. We tasted kisses all the way down, tongues around each other in a secret space between our mouths. Everything was slow, with shallow, tempered breathing and his warm eyes held my focus steady. He didn’t let me rush through, pretending to be blind on passion. Every scorch of his fingers sliding up under my jumper, onto the sweltering skin of my back, made my stomach curl with guilt, because I only wanted him.

He eased my jumper off with such measured consideration that I had every opportunity to resist, but the intent of his actions was too compelling. My lips buried against his collar bone and I breathed him in – sweat and subtle aftershave, stale beer. Our skin melted together on contact, welded with the exchange of warmth. There wasn’t a single moment where I thought about stopping, nor a single flicker of Sam.

His mouth found my ear lobe, sucking deliberately. I didn’t shudder; I groaned – a long sound that rumbled through me. Neil’s palm smoothed out across my chest, leaning in to me to catch the vibrations as I pressed against him. Nothing was hurried. It could have been, but even loosing the unpleasant tension from the sharp metal zip at my fly, happened tooth by notched tooth.

I unbuckled his belt, feeling the catch slip from the restraining position. My thumb skimmed his top button, knuckles brushing denim that was straining full and heavy as I chose my way forward. Fingers gripped tightly as I lifted, twisted, unhooking that button one-handed, while my tongue tangled around his, still steady and slow.

Neil introduced me to his hand and I let him meet mine. In the sweaty confines of boxers and jeans, fingers pushed past fabric, gripping and releasing around rigid, warm flesh – his cock, my dick - grasping the clammy, hairy, too-much-of-it skin around tight, fragile balls. Cheek to cheek, breath damp on each other’s chests we drew out long, unhurried strokes.

His finger pads were rough – are rough - shuddering down the length of me like the stop-go of a cat lick. And his mouth was slippery and mine, because it had to be and he made it be, and it was.

And Ewan Sandler has the worst timing in the universe.

“Is he wanking you off?”

“Oh my Jesus God!” I must have jumped a foot. Neil looked shocked, confused, yet to turn around. He frowned deeply.

What? mouthing the word, free hand not signing exactly.

The answer to the question was, no Ewan, not any fucking more. Thank you very much.

“Is that what you guys do? Not the bum stuff?”

Neil turned his head when my eyes locked onto the newly found bane of my existence. He cringed when he saw Ewan laughing and his head dipped against my shoulder, body sagging slightly against mine as he slipped his hand free. I could feel the mortification sheeting off him. Mine was numbed over, but my wheeze had materialised.

“Ewan, piss off.”

“In the kitchen? Is the kitchen sexy? You clean in here, right?” He sauntered over to the cupboard, got the peanut butter out and wandered over to the kitchen table to slump down.

“I’m going to count to five and then I’m going to kill you.”

I swear to God, he looked down at my steadily limper cock, dangling from my fly, raised his eyebrows and said “With that?”

Have you ever had an eleven year old insult the size of your dick? I can only guess that his was the kind of family that was used to wandering around naked. Somehow, Neil managed to stop me throttling him. At the time I thought he had a hell of a lot more restraint that I do, but later he told me it would look really bad if he killed a kid in his form group. He reckoned he’d only get away without the whole school knowing about his sexual exploits, because for Ewan to give that away, he’d have to mention the fact that he was living with his gay uncle. I don’t think there are many eleven year old boys in the world who’d want to do that.