Reach for the Moon

There's a moth on the wall above the light switch. Dunno how it got down here in our windowless basement, but now it's trapped. It's a pretty thing close up — white with black spots, orange smeared over the upper wings. Reminds me of one of Mum's old moggies. Maybe I can get it upstairs without hurting it.

Even as I think this, it crawls on the wall and then flutters off, out of the door.

With a bit of luck, it'll make its own way up the stairs to open skies and the warmth of the sun. Or maybe it's the moon it's craving. Moths do, don't they? Night things, they are, like certain mates of mine.

On the subject of which, I'd better get a move on. I make my way across the room and kneel to turn on the hot air heater, wanting to take the chill from the basement air quick before Joseph makes it down here from the shower.

There's fluff on the black legs of my hakama. Mum's put them through the bloody dryer with something plush again - that velvety hoodie of hers, more than likely; damn thing loses fibres like an Afghan drops hair. Told her repeatedly not to wash my gear, that the hakama in particular don't go through the machines. Does she listen? Does she bollocks.

I should probably just have worn my gi trousers and not gone to the trouble of strapping the hakama over the top. Not like Joseph's gonna appreciate the kudos of the seven folds of virtue, but the baggy skirt-cum-trousers mark me out as sensei. That matters to me even if Joseph couldn't give a flying one. The virtues matter too. They're not just words to me the way they are to some Jujitsu pros. Courage, humility, justice, chivalry, honesty, loyalty and prestige — what's not to rate there?

I'm better at some of them than others, of course. Well better.

The heater starts chucking out hot air dry enough to make the woodwork need Oil of Olay, and I rear back, the smell of burning dust from the elements sharp in my nose. That's the trouble with electric heat; it's so dry. Us Brits ain't designed for dry heat. We don't have the mucus membranes or something.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I stand, shaking out my limbs and starting my warm up exercises. Yeah, I ain't got the mats out yet, I know — couldn't get away with that in a proper dojo. I try some kiai breathing, trying to get to that deeper place as I'm tense for some reason, kinda prickly, fuck knows why.

Agreed, I don't normally take mates down here to my little gym for one-on-one training sessions, but Joseph's an exception, as per bloody usual. The bloke badly needs a lesson or two on how not to be a professional victim — well, talented amateur, anyhow. He was beaten up a couple of weeks back, gay-bashed again. Twat might as well wear a sign round his neck saying 'Whack me now: for all your violent bigotry needs'.

Not that Joseph's effeminate or nothing, but he don't exactly ooze the right amount of confidence necessary to keep opportunist gits off his back neither. His pace is too short, that's one thing, despite those long legs that seem to reach his armpits, and he don't take up the space due to him, that's another. Men should stride, casual but no apologies like. When they sit on a sofa, they should spread out, taking up a good three-quarters, not sit all prim and proper with their knees touching.

Ain't my job to teach Joseph them things though. I wouldn't even know how to bring up the subject. Nah, I'm just gonna show my still-bruised mate how to get out of trouble the next time he invites it in for a good lying there and taking it.

The kiai breathing just ain't happening. Better get the mats out now anyhow.

I go to the big chest under the pipes at the back and open the lid. The tension inside me is growing; I'm too attuned to my body not to be aware of it. I'm on edge, like I'm waiting for something big to happen — something a lot bigger than a slightly damp mate appearing in the doorway wanting to be shown a hold break or two.

It ain't the gay thing. Whatever's up, it ain't that. I'm a lot of things, and some of them are a bit dodgy and all, but I ain't no homophobe. Me and Joseph go way back, you see. We've been mates since secondary school, and while plenty of other tossers back-turned or worse when Joseph 'fessed up to being queer, I stayed. Stayed and protected the stupid git, in fact, as he never has had a clue how to look after himself.

I'm man enough not to feel threatened by Joseph looking at my arse when he don't think I'm paying attention, and I stand by my mates if they stand by me... or behind me, if that's what they fancy; don't matter what they are. So I stood by Joseph when he came out of his already rather over-decorative closet, no probs. I even got used to seeing Joseph snog blokes, and for a while, we double-dated, Joseph with his fuck of the week and me with some bird or another.

That didn't last though, as while my girls, to a one, made like superglue with Joseph within milliseconds, I quickly discovered that Joseph had fucking godawful taste in boyfriends. Still has. Every bloody one of them is a high-grade tosser of one kind or another. It was like a weekly freakshow back then, seeing what lisping queen or leather-clad steroid-pumper Joseph would drag along next to our evenings out. So I called a stop to that one. Could anyone blame me?

Yeah, sod that.

Didn't stop us being mates though. We still get together at least once a week for a pint and a natter, or sometimes a bunch of us goes the pictures/curry route. It's all good.

We're both working men now, of course. Him wasting his degree with a Council job, and me down the same sports centre I near as bloody damn it grew up in. Nah, I ain't gone far, have I?. Only I have really. Gone up in belts and dan, won some cups for Mum's mantle, got myself on the regional team and competed in the national championships, started teaching the youngsters. Yeah, made a little something of myself and it's still early days like.

I unroll the mats, one by one, watching them uncurl like butterfly tongues. Is that Joseph on the stairs? I heard something that could've been steps. No one's in the house bar me and him... ah, and yeah, also the cats. I throw a mat strap at the ginger job, and he hightails it out of my gym. Don't let the furry freaks into my places in the house. They drop hair everywhere, you see, and I like to keep my gear looking A1-pristine.

So, a cat, not Joseph. I still have time to... to do what? Too bloody much this is. I've known the bloke nearly nine years now. Getting nervy about being on my own with him is bollocks. Big, fat, dangling old geezer bollocks. I'm alone with him all the time upstairs when Mum's out, or in Joseph's flat at any time. It's never any biggie. So, no, I'm not gonna do this. Joseph deserves better.

And if Joseph does break a habit of a lifetime and make a move on me sober, so bloody what? Compliment, ain't it? Easy enough to give him some minor grief, just enough to make him stop and not start again, and then everything'll be back to normal, just like it was before...

Before three weeks ago last Wednesday.

And that's why I'm like this, ain't it? That night, what happened then, is why I'm walking over to my punch bag now, craving some casual GBH. I watch my fists slamming into the orange leather. Should've wrapped them really. Who cares? I fucking don't. If Joseph don't bloody hurry up and get down here so we can get this over and done with, I'm gonna go up and get him.

I stop punching and adjust my belt under the hakama. I'm doing it for myself 'cause I'm kind of vain about my appearance and correct form is important in the old school martial arts, and not 'cause Joseph's got a thing about sportswear. But the fact is, he has.

Well, blokes in sportswear anyhow, especially the ones who wear it for, you know, actual sport or training or what have you, not just street casual. Joseph comes to watch me compete when he can. He says he's showing support for a mate, but he's ogling too, and we both know it. Truth to tell, I don't mind him looking at me. I take care with my appearance, and it's nice to know it's appreciated by someone. Girls only seem to notice when that care's not there.

But that don't mean I'm gay, just vain, and it certainly don't mean I welcomed that night three weeks back. I was bladdered, completely out of my skull. Hadn't intended to get that way; it just happened, and apparently it happened to Joseph too, though I don't remember him drinking all that much, actually.

Anyway, we'd been leaning on each other all the way home 'cause it was that or fall down. We got to Joseph's building, and I followed him up since I was a bit peckish by that stage. We stopped at the door, still leaning together like tent poles, and there was this big muddle and fuddle as Joseph couldn't find his bloody keys. I don't know, even now, how what happened next happened. I was trying to help him go through his pockets, I think, and then, just like that, we were sodding well kissing.

Nah, that gives the wrong impression. We weren't kissing; Joseph was kissing, and I was standing there like a muppet without a hand up its arse, trying to get my beer-soaked brain cells to tell me what the fuck was going on.

In the end it took one of Joseph's hands, travelling low for a quick grope down in illegal target land, to shake — or rather, rub — some sense into me. I pulled right back, shoving him away so that he hit the door frame, but not before I learnt how Joseph's tongue felt when it was looking for a new home. Could've lived a long time without knowing that one, let me tell you.

I rolled home by myself. Well, I weren't going into his flat if that was the mood he was in, no matter how high the old blood alcohol level. Weren't that I was worried I couldn't fight him off, more that I could hurt him while I did so. Ain't safe using moves and shit when you're off your tits on draught.

Next day, Joseph apologised, blaming the demon booze and the fact that I'd called him 'pretty', which I don't remember doing at all, but it's possible. Yeah, suppose I have to admit that one. He is, you see — all long lashes and pout, like a girl, only not, 'cause he don't really look like a girl at all. Just pretty.

You say stupid things when you're drunk, but that don't mean you deserve to get snogged for them, and anyway, calling someone pretty is hardly a sodding invitation to make yourself at home. One thing I know about being on the piss is that it only greases the tracks to do the things you really want to do anyway, so Joseph really wanted to kiss me, and maybe he wants to again.

I've tried shrugging it off. Thought I succeeded actually, 'specially after the git got himself thrashed again 'cause he was out without me, working off his guilt. But it seems I can't let it go — maybe 'cause the dreams I've been having since keep bringing it back to me like an unwanted puppy and asking, 'Is this yours? Must have slipped its collar. You should take better care of your grudges else you'll lose them.'

Not that 'grudge' is the right word, not really. Just that it's unsettling to find your mate's tongue in your gob, thrusting away like a... Well, like a small and kinda slippery prick, frankly, and there's another thing I don't want a mouthful of, ta very much.

Christ, where is that boy? Never known anyone take so long in the shower as him. Is it a gay thing or something? Fuck, that raises some possibilities I don't want to consider anytime soon, or indeed, ever. Heh, maybe he's just having a not-so-quick one off the wrist so he can better resist the urge to kiss my clearly gorgeous fizzog when he gets down here.

Room's getting too hot. Better shut off the heater now.

I walk over, crouching down to do that, and I finally hear footfalls on the stairs. At bloody last. I stand, folding my arms and waiting for the plonker to appear in the doorway. He does, walking in with a chirpy, "Hi Thom," and shutting the door behind him. He's chewing something, and he drops a wrapper in the bin by the wall.

He's wearing a white tee and shorts. Hadn't expected that for some reason. Thought he'd have brought some tracksuit bottoms along or something. I can still see bruises on his long limbs from the beating, and that makes me angry. People ain't meant to beat on my mates. One of his bare feet is particularly blotchy — must've been stamped on hard. Arseholes. If I ever find out who they were, then they're abattoir trimmings.

"You look like that Yung Chow Fat bloke," he says, smiling as he comes over and pushing his too-long dark hair from his eyes. A good fighter keeps his hair short, but that's the last thing Joseph is.

I know who he means — that bloke from Crouching Tiger. "Too blond, surely." As I'm a very bloody good fighter, my mane is clippered to less than a half-inch, but it's still visible, and anyhow, I'm not Chinese or whatever that guy is. Still, don't mind looking like a younger version of him, that's for sure.

"It's standing with your arms folded that's doing it," Joseph explains, "and the baggy breeks."

"You've seen 'em before."

"Yeah, and I've thought it before. I like the tight black vest — showcases your muscles wonderfully."

Joseph often says shit like that, and normally, that's all right with me. He makes a good mirror; if he likes how I'm looking on a night, there's a good chance I'll be pulling later. Today though, I don't want to hear it, so I frown at him. Clear warning if he's paying attention.

"Let's get on with it then, Joe," I say, walking us over to the mats. "Not gonna teach you proper jujitsu 'cause that way it'd take weeks 'fore you learnt anything useful. Just gonna show you some ways to cripple an attacker quickly and ways to break holds, all right?"

"Gotcha," he says happily. He seems to be looking forward to this. Wish I was. "And don't call me 'Joe'," he adds.

Yeah, sometimes I still forget. He was always 'Joe' 'til he came out. Then suddenly it had to be 'Joseph' all the time. Guess 'Joe' weren't suitably poncy enough or something. We face each other on the mats, and I frown more. "Stop looking like that."

He gives a clearly guilty start and looks away from me, which is pretty bloody funny considering I meant something well different. "I wasn't," he says.

"You wasn't what? I meant stop standing like that. Stand like a man, not a sulky girl." He's got his pale legs so tight together it's like he's afraid something'll fall out otherwise.

He gives me a look as dripping with reproach as a kebab is excess fat. "I do not stand like a girl."

I shake my head, remembering I weren't gonna to talk to him about this sort of thing. "Self-defence is at least half visible attitude, mate. Best defence is never getting attacked in the first place. You set off every gaydar in the town when you're on walkabout."

"Fuck off!" His hands are on his hips now. "I dress the same as you."

"Ain't to do with clothes." At least, I bloody hope it ain't.

"No? Must be my pink poodle and pansy nosegay then. You're talking shit, Thom."

I hold my hands up in surrender. "All right, ok. I take it back. Not like I think there's anything wrong with acting gay anyway, just so long as you don't do it on your own in the street at night 'cause that's asking for it."

"I don't." Yeah, and he ain't pouting like a little girl denied a party dress neither. I roll my eyes.

"Time for warm up."

"Nah."

I stare at him. "You want me to give you lessons or not? 'Cause if you do, refusing my very first instruction ain't impressing me."

He frowns. "If I'm attacked in the street, I won't be able to say, 'Excuse me, Mr Mugger, but would you mind waiting five minutes while I do my warm up exercises?' will I? I wouldn't even get the first two words out."

Ok, that suits me. Quicker we start, the quicker it'll be over. "Enjoy your muscle strains tomorrow then," I say, not bothering to hide my irritation as I go grab a baton from the side table. "Right," I continue when back at the mats, dropping into a ready position. "I'm coming at you with a knife. What d'you do?"

"Scream and drop my pansies?" He gives me a sarcastic smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Then I gut you. Stop pissing about, Joseph."

He huffs. "I don't know what I'd do. Run, I suspect. Isn't this what you're meant to be teaching me?"

"Right." I straighten and chuck him the baton, which he predictably fumbles and has to pick up from the mat. "So imagine you've got a knife and come at me."

He makes a half-arsed run at me, and I step out of the way. Would be laughable if this weren't so serious. "Git, you wanna kill me. You hate me. You don't think I deserve the oxygen. Come on, you want to slaughter me. Try it."

He gives a little yell and runs at me again, the baton aimed at my midriff. I don't do nothing fancy, sticking to moves he can learn easy. I bring the heel of one hand round to the wrist of his knife hand, shoving it aside and sending the baton flying from his insufficiently tight grip. The move twists his body in that direction. I continue my motion in a smooth figure of eight, thwacking my other hand-heel into the side of his face, pushing his head the other way from his body. I hold back, of course. Don't want to really hurt the git, which I could with that move and my strength, that's for sure.

"Fuck," he mutters, staggering back. "That hurt."

"I held back."

"Yeah? Bloody good job, else you'd have broken my neck!" He rubs the side of his face and looks reproachfully at me. "I didn't come here for impromptu chiropractics."

"Nah? Thought you liked being manhandled." I hold up a hand, stopping his reply to that one. "Well, now you get to do the same to me anyway." I pick up the baton. "And you don't hold back with me. Give it everything you've got and trust me not to get hurt, all right?"

He nods. "I didn't really see what you did though, Thom. It was too fast... and painful."

"That's all right. We'll do the first run in slow motion and keep at it that way 'til you've got it. That can count as a warm up."

So we spend some time on this, and miracle of bloody miracles, he's actually doing quite well in the end. He picks up quickly that he has to aim through the target, not at it, and he's nowhere near as physically weak as his useless act makes out. Well, those hours lifting weights have to be good for something beyond stud-hunting, surely. Not that he's exactly musclebound — well too skinny for that — but he's in good nick.

I go briefly through the points to aim at for quick immobilisation — eyes, nose bridge, throat, groin, knees — and how to hit them right, and also the ways to use the attacker's own body against them — forced joint locks and the like. Then we take a little breather. "Right, good start," I say. "Now we'll work through some holds and how to get out of them."

"Can't we have a rest first?" he asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes again. He needs to tie it back, maybe with some nice pink ribbons.

I look down, hiding a smirk, before saying, "If you mean a sit-down, no. We've hardly started yet. There's isotonics in the cupboard above the chests if you want one." Not that I'm in any hurry to move on to the holds myself, but my reasons for that are stupid and so I'm not listening to them.

Joseph huffs again. He does that a lot. "You're just like a gym teacher."

"Oh no, mate. I'm way better than any fucking gym teacher. I compete nationally in my sport. I'm not some sado with a whistle, hanging around a muddy pitch somewhere, bullying small brats."

"All right, all right. Didn't mean to insult your trousers of the holy bagginess." Joseph sticks his tongue out. "So how do we do holds then?"

I give him a look, challenging him to make something more of what I'm about to say than what I mean. "Ok, first some examples. Grab hold of me."

Joseph just stands there, the corners of his mouth apparently suffering some kind of nasty spastic attack. He ought to have that seen to. "How?" he asks in the end.

"You're an attacker. Maybe you want to hold me back while your mate molests my girl. Maybe I'm alone, and you want to drag me back into an alley to beat me to mince."

He still doesn't move. "You may be shorter than me, Thom, but you're built like a nuclear fallout shelter. I'd have to be nuts to try to drag you anywhere."

I'm starting to think warmly of my punch bag again. "Right. Guess we forget the examples then." I walk around behind him, and as he don't turn round to watch me, I grab him with an arm snug around his neck. He smells of my mum's shampoo, 'rain fresh' or what have you. I growl into his ear, "Give us your readies or you're dead meat, poof," and hold out my other hand in front of him. Not very realistic, I suppose, but got to start somewhere.

Joseph feels tense in my arms. My grip is forcing him to hollow his back, stick out his non-existent gut. "Could've done without the 'poof'," he says resentfully. I feel his Adam's apple moving against my forearm.

I give him a little shake and try to sound menacing. "Shut your face, pretty boy, or I'll break your neck."

"For fuck's sake, Thom." He sounds a little uptight, and suddenly I remember that I don't know if his muggings included this sort of thing. Fuck, they probably did. I let him go immediately.

"Sorry, didn't mean to... I was just trying to make it realistic. Stupid of me." I step back from him, feeling bad. Don't know what the hell I was about there, saying them things.

He turns and gives me a rueful look. "Well, at least you called me pretty again." Shaking his head, he manages a smile. "It's all right. Come back and do the hold again, just stick to the lesson and forget about acting for now, eh?"

"Yeah, sorry." I feel like a right bastard. Talk about kicking a bloke when he's down. "You sure you want to continue?"

"Yeah, let's just do it. It's all right, honest." Joseph licks his lips in a way that looks nervous to me and walks over. He turns his back to me. "Do the neck thing again."

"Ok. Yeah." I really don't wanna do this anymore. I wrap my arm around him loosely and try to keep my teacher voice going. "Ok, to get out of this one is pretty easy, so long as they're not expecting it. I'll break it down into individual movements, but you need to learn to do it all at once, real quick like."

"I'm listening." Strangely, he's not so tense in my arms now. I risk tightening my grip a little so that it at least feels like a hold. His hair gets into my mouth, and I wipe it away with my free hand.

"Right," I say, and I explain what to do which ends with an instruction to drop to his knees. Many hold breaks do since most attackers won't expect a downwards movement, and it don't rely on strength, just your own weight. "Got it?"

He tries to nod, but my arm's in the way. "Shall I give it a try?"

"Go for it."

In seconds, my arm is slammed up, and Joseph is on his knees in front of me. "Christ, it actually worked," he laughs.

"Yeah, well done. Nice one." Agreed, I was only holding him loosely, but he did everything right all the same. "You pick things up quick when you want to, doncha? Now ideally, as soon as your knees hit mat, you should be bringing your elbow down and back in a continuous movement from the ones you've just done. Jab straight into my groin 'fore I've even worked out you've gone from my grip and then roll away to the side. But we'll just imagine that bit today, ok?"

No way am I encouraging the git to put anything of his anywhere near my groin.

Joseph laughs some more as he stands up. "Again?"

I nod, and we run through the move several times as well as some other holds from the back and side. We both get more relaxed as we go, and he does well, continuing to pay attention and learn quickly. He's not good enough to pass an exam or nothing, but if he gets attacked by a fairly crap mugger now, he might even get away scratchless this time. I can see he's gaining in confidence too, and that's important, so I heap on the praise, letting him know how impressed I am with his quickness. He all but purrs.

Eventually we work our way around to frontal holds. I stand directly before him and put my hands around his neck. "I'm strangling you. What you going to do about it?"

"Knee you in the balls?" Joseph suggests hopefully. Yeah, you wish.

"Well, yeah, you could try it, but what if the pain simply makes me squeeze harder? Can take as little fifteen seconds to black out from being strangled. You have to break the hold before anything else."

"Ok, how do I do that?"

So I explain, and I think I explain well. It's another one of them break and duck jobs. He managed the others all right, which is why I'm bloody surprised when, this time, I find myself hurtling back onto the mat with Joseph on top of me. Guess I weren't being a very good immoveable object, but as he was meant to be dropping down and away, not down and then barrelling into me, I shouldn't have had to be.

"What was that? Improvisation?" I ask, laughing a little breathlessly as he winded me a bit. He's laying heavily on me, arms and legs sprawled out to either side, and he ain't moving. I put my hands to his shoulders. "Joseph? Joe, you all right?"

"Yeah," he says in a funny kind of voice, muffled against my shoulder.

"Gonna get off me?" There's no answer, but he is gonna get off me 'cause if he don't move himself in the next five seconds, I'm gonna chuck him halfway across the fucking room. There's a suspicious lump beginning to press into the hollow of my hip, and I don't like it, and worse than that, I don't like that my first reaction to it weren't righteous bloody outrage like it should've been.

Not gonna think about what it was, but it weren't that.

"Don't call me 'Joe'," he mutters, still not moving. He's holding himself still, letting his weight just rest on top of me. That just makes the twitching in the suspicious lump harder to ignore.

I close my eyes. "Joseph, if you don't get the fuck off me before I count to five—"

"You'll what?" He looks up suddenly, pushing himself up onto his elbows which presses his groin all the more into mine. "Get even bloody harder?"

Aw fuck. "I'm not—"

"Oh, come off it, Thom." He grinds his crotch into me, and what the bloody hell was that noise that just came from my mouth? "Not even you're that good at denial. You're either as hard as I am or wearing some kind of weirdo animate codpiece."

"I'm fucking not!" I chuck him off and then lie there panting on my back, trying to make the world make sense again. It's just a... a wotsit, an aberration. Yeah, that's what it is. Got my wires briefly twisted, but I'll be fine soon. Just got to calm down, do some breathing...

"That one of the seven folds of the naughty ninja?" Joseph asks. He's sitting up beside me, leaning on one arm with his legs curled up, and as I look up at him, he licks his lower lip, leaving it glistening. I follow his line of sight down to my groin.

I don't know why it comes as such a bloody shock. Not like I don't know when I'm erect or not. Kinda hard to ignore that one, you know? Yeah, kinda hard all right. Very bloody hard and jutting up strongly enough to lift multiple layers of heavy cloth. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I stand up and walk rigidly to the far end of the mats. Why not further? Why not leave the damn room? Fucked if I know. Brain ain't working too good at this moment. Can't work out why I can still feel the ghost of him pressing into me, and why that don't disgust me like it should. What the fuck's wrong with me? And why can't I catch my breath? He didn't wind me that much, falling on me.

I don't hear him get up behind me, but suddenly he's over here at my side, and he's rubbing my back. "Thom, it's all right," he says gently. "It's ok. Everything's fine."

"Bollocks it is," I say shakily, closing my eyes as if that somehow will block out the feel of his hands. Only makes it worse, of course. Means there's nothing to distract me from the way they're gliding over my back and bare shoulders. "Stop touching me."

His hands stop moving, but lay still on me for a few moments before he finally takes them away. "Thom, I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"More bollocks. You said it wouldn't happened again after trying to lick my bloody tonsils the other week." Can still feel his tongue three weeks later, and no, I do not want to feel it again. I fucking don't.

"I... I know. I just get such mixed..." He turns away. "We not mates anymore then?" He sounds, I dunno, kind of desolate I guess.

I bite my lip and don't answer. Can't answer, more like. I got no clue what we are anymore. Just want things to make sense again; want my body to stop acting like I'm gagging for cock or something. I'm straight. I've always been straight. I feel sick.

I want his hands back on me.

Want to kiss the unhappiness from his voice.

Fuck.

"I'll go then," he says. He clearly don't want to as he moves at the speed of a wounded snail over tintacks, but eventually he reaches the door. I'm still not looking at him, but I hear the squeak of the handle. Fuck knows what'll happen if I let him leave like this.

"Joseph," I manage.

"Yeah?"

"We're still mates." I snort roughly, tipping my head back. "Got one helluva lot of shit to sort out between us now, but still mates. All right?" I'm still fucking breathless. This is insane.

I hear him walk back over and then feel his hand on my shoulder. I should be pissed off that he's come back, but instead, I'm relieved, and only by an effort of will worthy of a great master am I not turning to him to — to do something I shouldn't. Don't know what exactly, but there's an ache in my groin, a dragging need and...

"That means a lot," he says, and it takes me long seconds to work out he's talking about the 'still friends' bit. "Fuck of a lot. I've messed up, Thom, and I'm so sorry." His hand moves restlessly on my shoulder. "Do you still want me to go? You need to calm down; you're trembling."

Tell me something I don't know in every sodding muscle. Wish he'd stop asking me that question 'cause how can I answer it? If I say 'no, stay' then I'm asking for something that... that terrifies me, and if I say 'yes' he'll sod off and then... then he won't be here touching me no more.

After a pause, he says, "Ok, I'll see you, er, whenever." He drops his hand but doesn't move away yet.

"Joseph." I don't want him to go, though I still can't make myself look at him. My voice is so strangled it sounds like I'm crying or something. I'm not, but it sounds like it, and that pisses me off. My fists are bunched so hard my fingers hurt.

Joseph shifts about. I feel the movement and hear it. "I'm here," he says, and after a pause, he adds, "You got to tell me what you want, Thom. Can't read your mind however much I wish I knew your thoughts right now."

"They wouldn't make any sense to you even if you did," I say with a tight little laugh. "Don't make no sense to me, and I'm thinking the bastards." I wish he'd just do something — something to make me stop thinking 'cause the thinking hurts. It's like I broke when I dropped back onto the mat with him on top of me, and now I'm all razor sharp shards that won't fit together no matter how much I lacerate my fingers.

"You're confused."

That makes me laugh aloud. "Could say that. You know, if you're into understatements so far 'under' they're taking a gander at Sydney Harbour."

He chuckles at that, but then says, "I am sorry. I knew you weren't ready, might never be ready, but you were under me, between my legs, and I wan—" He shuts up suddenly as if second-guessing what he'd been going to say.

"You want me," I complete, voice expressionless. Sod knows how I manage that one.

"Yeah, I want you. Guess there's no point in denying that, eh? You're gorgeous, Thom. You always have been." He sighs heavily. Why won't he touch me again if I'm that sodding gorgeous?

Because he thinks you don't want him to, you twat, I tell myself. But I do; I really fucking do. So much so I feel like begging, and I don't know who I am anymore. Not me, that's for bloody sure.

"It really won't happen again," he offers, sounding increasingly desperate. "Your friendship means more than—"

I don't find out what it means more than though as I've spun round and grabbed him, pulling him close, and as he stands there gaping like a particularly stupid fish, I kiss him.

Well, it ain't a kiss, not really. It's a terrorist attack. I'm doing to his mouth what Vikings used to do to innocent villages. He seems to like a touch of rape and pillage though, judging by the way he's moaning into my gob and squirming against me in a way set to make me truly berserk. Christ, I want him, want this. I'm sick, got a fever or something, but I can't fight it. Not now.

He tastes of toffee.

Must be whatever he was eating when he came in, I think, and then stop thinking 'cause he's managed to wriggle a hand between us to rub over my prick, and even through all the layers of clothing, it's enough to make me whimper like a girl. "Joseph," I groan into his mouth. "Joe..."

"Don't call me that," he mutters, breaking away from the kiss. "Christ, you never told me these stupid trousers of yours were actually a chastity belt. How many layers do they have?"

"Joseph..." I look down between us and see his hand rubbing me, and my legs nearly give out. "Fuck." I push him away, and he makes a noise of complaint. Probably thinks I'm stopping things again, but I'm not. Can't do that, not now. Gone way too far for that.

Nearly rip my hakama trying to get the straps undone quick. The rear straps are simple enough, but front straps get tied at the back, round the knot of my obi belt. It ain't exactly peasy to undo all that shit in the small of your back when all you can think about is how un-fucking-believably horny your mate looks with his cock pushing up the front of his white shorts, making a round damp patch on the cloth.

The hakama falls to the floor in a heap around my feet, and I kick it aside. I'll make nice with the spirit of the dojo later. Right now, yuki, jin, makoto, and all the rest of the virtues can sod off somewhere and talk among themselves — no doubt about what a disgrace I am to the discipline, like I give a flying one.

Well, maybe later.

Joseph is staring at me. "You're wearing trousers under your trousers," he says accusingly.

"Gi are worn under the—" Oh, fuck that, fuck explaining. I push my gi trousers off — they're the cheap ones and just elastic at the waist — and stand there in my vest top and CKs trying not to feel like a prat. "All right?"

"Yeah," Joseph breathes, coming forward. "More than all right." He puts his hand on my pants, rubbing my cock again, and the sensation is so much more intense now that I gasp.

I grab at him and pull him tight to me, covering his mouth once more as, well, why the hell not? I like the way he tastes of caramel, fucking love the way he feels alive in my arms. Want more. Want it all.

I'm holding him so close it's a wonder he can breathe in, yet he still manages to get his hand inside my CKs, skin to skin. I feel the dry heat of his hand, and I'm amazed I ain't coming right here and now. Too shell-shocked, I guess. My legs go though — hardly surprising, eh? — and I drag him down to the mats with me.

"Thom," he moans as we arrange ourselves together; he's straddled on top of me again, and he holds my face between his hands. I think I can smell myself on him. "Want you."

"Got me, you bastard. Turned me, aincha? Made me gay." If I could spare the brain cells to consider it, I'd be bothered at how intense I sound. Lust twisting my voice, I guess. I grab his hair and pull him back to my mouth. I don't want to rabbit with him about this.

He wriggles on top of me like a frenzied caterpillar, our cocks grinding together through the thin layers of material. Who knew how good that could feel? Well, Joseph probably did. The thought of him doing something like this with that parade of idiots he's presented to me over the years makes me growl, and what the fuck is that about? Did I think he should have saved himself for me?

He drags his mouth away to bite into my neck. I can hear his breath loud and shivery near my ear. "Thom. God, Thom," he whispers harshly. My hands have found his arse somehow — so I can hold him tighter to me where it matters, I suspect — and I can feel his muscles working as he thrusts against me. "Want you so much."

"Never been—" There's something wrong with my voice. Fuck, I can hardly breathe. I follow his example and whisper. "Never been so bloody turned on in all my life." I slip my hands inside his waistband so I can cup his arse properly. Dirty little bugger's not wearing any pants. Christ, I wish I weren't neither. I press my face into his hair and hiss, "You feel... feel so fucking good."

"You think this is good?" Suddenly he's wriggling down my body. Not sure I like this; my upper half feels naked without his weight. "Wait 'til you feel this."

I want him to come back and kiss me into not thinking. Really, really don't want to think currently. "Joseph, what are you—" Oh.

Fucking oh.

He's kissing me through my Calvin Klein's, and even as I'm pushing up to meet his lips, he's peeling my pants down so he can do it properly — soft lips opening to inner heat and that damned tongue of his that started all this fucking wrongness.

I grab his hair and drag him off. "No." He looks confused, so I add, "I'll come, you git."

"Kind of the general idea of this sort of thing," he says, trying to free himself from my grip.

"No." My cock thinks I'm mad. My hips are still pushing up towards Joseph. "What about you?"

He stops struggling. "You want to touch me?" he asks, and I can hear hope in his voice.

I stare at him for a moment or two. Then I move, surging up and grabbing his shoulders with both hands, pushing him down onto the mats half under me. I kiss him 'cause that seems to make everything easier, and then I start to stroke my topmost hand slowly down his body while he makes tasty little noises into my mouth.

Feeling daring — or rather, feeling off my trolley with raw lust — I slip my hand under the waistband of his shorts.

I freeze when I finally touch his prick though. Weren't expecting to react like that. I mean, why balk when we've come this far? But it feels so... Fuck, I don't have the words. It's just like touching my own, but at the same time, it's so not at all like that whatso-bloody-ever that it feels... alien.

This is fucked.

Then Joseph thrusts up into my touch, just once, and freezes himself with a cut off little gasp. I pull back enough to look at his face. His dark eyes are wide open, his nostrils flared. He looks almost frightened, like he thinks I'm gonna hurt him.

I stroke the length of his cock with my fingertips, wanting to soothe him. The fear — if that's what it was — goes immediately. He whimpers and closes his eyes, pushing up again until I wrap my hand around him properly and start to wank him.

Christ, look at him. Look at him buck and moan, like he's helpless, like he's a big fish, laying on the bank, gulping and writhing, trapped by my hook, my hand. I'm doing this to him. I made his lips look so swollen and red, and it's my name that keeps slipping from between them like wisps of smoke. Fuck, this is a headtrip and a half all right.

"Beautiful," I mutter.

His eyes open, and he smiles raggedly. It's at least half a grimace. "Step up from 'pretty'," he manages.

"Beautiful," I say again 'cause he is. Beautiful, and strangely, I've never seen him look more macho than he does right now. All his poncy mannerisms and postures are being stripped away from him as he loses it beneath me. His lips are pulled back, exposing his teeth, and he's moving like a man — very directed, thrusting into my hand and grabbing my arms hard enough it hurts. It's like he's forgotten how to play his precious role and is being himself again. Ain't seen this boy for years; I like having him back.

His cock don't feel strange in my hand no more. It's the best toy ever. I'm getting a power kick like you wouldn't believe from what I'm doing to him, but his shorts are messing up my strokes, and in exasperation, I pull my hand out and move down to strip them off him.

"Take yours off too," Joseph says breathlessly, leaning up on his elbow. I'm not wearing any, but I know what he means. I kick off my CKs and haul my vest tee over my head. I'm naked now, and very quickly, he is too. I have a sudden moment of oh-my-fucking-Godness.

I'm in my basement gym, naked and hard with my best mate. What the fuck am I doing? I feel a cold lump inside of me, making me want to curl up into a ball. I know what that icy lump is — learnt about it in training. It's fear that makes us want to curl up, to protect our vulnerable soft bits. Fear destroys our ability to protect ourselves properly; it makes a victim of us all. It's more important than I can say to never give in to fear. Never ever. Might as well just lie down and die if you're gonna do that.

"I'm not that much of a fright, am I?" Joseph sounds insecure, and when I allow my eyes to focus on him again, I see he's reclaimed his habitual closed tight posture. Fuck it. I know what that means now too. It's the same thing. All his poofy gestures and affectedness — they're armour. Fucking stupid armour considering the violence they invite. Ah, he's not that bad; I know he's not. But a mate notices these things even when they're subtle.

I shake my head. "You were beautiful. Told you that."

"Were?"

"You're tense now."

He reaches out and touches my arm. "So are you."

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck that." Fuck tense; fuck fear. Fuck fear hard up the arse until it screams for more, please, more, oh fucking God, more.

I laugh suddenly and move, straddling him over the top of his legs, bringing our pricks close together. "Don't be afraid, Joseph," I tell him, still laughing. "Be beautiful." And I wrap a hand around each prick and start to stroke.

"Cock hog," Joseph says roughly after a few moments, his head tipped back. "Oh Thom..."

I grin, not that he can see it. "I'm a greedy bugger. Can't help it." But I let go of myself and grab his hand, pulling it to me.

He raises himself slightly on his other arm and takes hold of my cock, and suddenly, the nice wide plateau of arousal I've been happily strolling about on suffers some kind of seismic catastrophe. The ground gives way under my feet, lifting me on an ascending peak stabbing higher and higher, closer and closer to the sun, which shines so bright I'm blinded, and oh fuck... "Joseph... Joseph..."

"Call... me... Joe," he gasps, and I watch with amazement as his cock starts to spurt in my fist.

And that's it. I'm blind, dumb and deaf as his hand on my cock takes everything I am at this moment — lust, emotion, thought, breath, fucking all of it — and drags it out of me in one never-ending, ball-emptying rush.

.

..

...

There is a long pause during which all that happens is me managing somehow to drag myself off him to lie on my back. Then, eventually, Joseph rolls to his side and puts a sticky hand on my chest, which is, I realise, pretty damn sticky itself.

He rubs over my pecs, fingers circling my nipples. "Thom, are we still friends?"

He really bloody cares about that, don't he? Kinda touching really. "Yeah. Course."

He makes a funny little noise and lays his head on my shoulder. I want to push him off, but I don't. Just lie there like a dead man and close my eyes. I can still feel his hand around my cock, can still taste him. I can most certainly still smell him; the stink of both of us is mingled all over our bodies.

I had sex — sort of — with my mate. My best mate, really. Shouldn't this feel more weird? Shouldn't I be having a total hissy fit right about now? Shouldn't I feel like a perv, like I've just fucked my brother or something? I don't feel like that though. Well, I do and I don't.

It's like there's two 'me's now. The straight as a spirit-levelled shelf me — the me I've always been — is lying here gasping for sense like it's breath. That me feels like I'm drowning in air 'cause my mate just came in my hand, and that's so fucking wrong, so not me, that I don't know where to start.

But there's a new me now too, and this new me thinks that what just happened was the best thrill I've had in bloody years, and that I'll be after a repeat performance just as soon as I can get it up again. Maybe we'll do more this time. Maybe I'll fuck Joseph. Yeah, new-me likes that thought — holding Joseph's hips while thrusting hard into him, making him wail for it. I've fucked girls up the arse before — those whose kink it was — so I can imagine how it'd feel all right.

Oh yeah. My cock's trying valiantly to at least twitch at that idea, but it simply ain't happening yet. Original-me wants to puke, of course, but new-me and my cock are signing treaty papers, and original-me's personal Poland is about to be invaded, the poor sod.

I laugh, disturbing Joseph. He raises his head. "Thom?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you thinking?" That's a girl's question. Or at least, it's the question of someone who's insecure and don't mind people knowing it. Listen to me trying to be PC in my own head.

"Thinking about when you first came out," I say. That's not so much a lie as it is a pre-emptive truth 'cause now that's just what I'm doing.

He lifts himself up properly on his elbow and looks down at me. "What about it?"

"Remembering that, when I stayed mates with you, a few of the stupider twats tried to say I was gay too."

"'Til you asserted your straight cred with hard fists." Joseph smiles, but it ain't an easy smile. His hair is falling in front of his face in strands, and he's not pushing it back. "Yeah, I remember."

"Yeah." I've always taken pride in the fact that people are scared to cross me. Part of my self-reliance thing, I guess. What being a man's all about, ain't it? "Well, looks now like I owe 'em an apology."

Joseph laughs. "You're not gay, Thom. Not wholly anyway. You relish breasts way too much."

The simple statement reassures original-me so very much that new-me is rolling about on the mats, laughing and pointing. I can't help a smile as I say, "Yeah, tits are marvellous bloody things."

"What about cocks?"

I glance down at Joseph's, now soft and small against his leg. I remember it spurting all over the shop because of what I was doing to him, and the feeling of 'oh fuck, yeah, I win' that set off in me. "Well, yours is all right," I say cautiously. "And I'm bloody fond of my own, obviously."

"You're bisexual, my dear."

"Don't call me that."

"What, bi?" Joseph frowns.

"Nah, the other." His endearments are like me calling him 'Joe' — unwelcome but always slipping out. "Can't really deny the bi considering the mess we just made of each other." Not that I'm aware of fancying any other blokes, but then, I weren't aware of fancying Joseph 'til he was lying on top of me, doing the crazy caterpillar. Don't think I'm very good at this self-awareness lark.

Joseph runs his hand up my chest and then licks his fingers.

"Aww, that's disgusting," I say, turning away.

"Tastes nice." He chuckles. "Let's go take a shower together."

I look back at him. Would be nice to be clean, though I hope to the big man in the sky that Mum ain't come home early. "Ok," I say, and I'm surprised at how calm I sound. I sit up and find my CKs, lying back to pull them on and doing my best to ignore the cold slipperiness of it all. Gi trousers next, then my vest-top, and then...

I look at the crumbled heap of my hakama. When you take one off, you're meant to go through this whole ritual of folding that takes an age. You're meant to treat it like something precious and sacred because, well, that's what it is. But I just kicked mine into a heap and forgot about it. It looks like a dead thing now, like road kill. It looks... ignoble. So much for virtue, eh? Oh Christ.

"Don't be afraid," Joseph says softly, sitting up beside me and touching my shoulder.

I turn and somehow it's easy to smile at him. I bring my hand up to touch his cheek. "Be beautiful?"

He smiles too, and he is. He really is. How can I have known him so long and not realised this? He still looks worried though.

I watch him get dressed, both of us still sitting, and then I ask, "You fretting this ain't gonna happen again?"

"Or worse." He glances at me and nods. "That our friendship won't survive this."

I can't help my eyes flicking towards my dead hakama. but then I reach out and ruffle his already well-ruffled hair. "How many bloody times I got to tell you, ponce? We're still mates. Ain't I stuck by you so far?"

"Yeah, but... Well, coming to terms with sexuality can be scary."

I snort. "Not saying I'm exactly laissez-faire about all this, but Joseph, think about it. Stop panicking and use your noggin." Not sure really if I'm talking to him here or to myself. I meet his eyes and say as clearly as I can make it, "When have you ever known me to give in to fear?"

He looks at me searchingly for a few moments longer. Then, just like that, I have a lapful of naked, happy Joseph pressing kisses all over my face.

"Gerroff, you prat!" I grab his shoulders and push him back a bit. "You're too bloody tall for this, and anyway, let's try crawling for a bit before entering the marathon, ok?"

"I wasn't about to suggest rings, my dear," he says archly. I've never seen a bloke look less repentant in all my life. Naughty little sod, he is. Well, big sod, really, and heavy.

"And none of that lovey crap neither. I ain't your 'dear' as I've told you countless bloody times before."

The look he gives me now suggests that actually that's just what I am, but all he says is, "Not even if I let you call me 'Joe'? You know, when it's just us?"

Chuckling a little, I lift him from me and then pull us both to our feet. "Let's go get clean then, Joe."

"Yes, dear," he says. Studiously ignoring the dark heap of my hakama left on the mats, I pull him over to the door.

But as I turn to hit the light switch, I can't help but see it. Suddenly it seems to me that it's not the corpse of something dead lying there, but rather it's a discarded shell. A husk, no longer needed by something that's damp and crinkled, only just now climbing up a stalk somewhere to spread its new wings and bathe in the rays of the sun.

Or moon.

Laughing at myself, I turn the light out, and we head upstairs to open skies.

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