His heart felt like it was about to bust through his chest, and his knees threatened to buckle. It wasn't just his nerves anymore, it was pure fear. He had never been out so late and had never once even considered sneaking out before, but now as he stood at the top of the stairs, trying to remember which were the ones that creaked, Brady experienced his first real sensation of what it was like to live.

He couldn't quite explain it, even though he was more scared and more nervous than he had ever been in his life, he had never felt so alive. The problem being, he wasn't able to make his body cooperate with his mind's objective. Standing idly at the top of the stairs, trying to see through the black of night, Brady had to force himself to step forward.

As he slowly lowered his foot to the first stair it groaned on contact, louder than the blaring horn of a semi-truck. Brady snapped his foot back, nearly cowering back to his room, and ducked behind the banister. He never knew that night could be so empty, its darkness so thick and deceiving. Allowing his heart-rate to settle, Brady forced himself back up to his feet.

This time Brady skipped the first step and placed his foot to the very edge of the stair. By holding onto the railing and leaning into it, hoping it would lessen the weight of his descent, he cautiously progressed down the stairs. Up until making it halfway down, Brady had managed to avoid any noise. However, as his foot made contact with the eighth step, the wood squealed like the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Instead of freezing where he stood or running back to his room, Brady panicked and ran down the stairs, two steps at a time.

The moment his feet made contact with the landing, he fell to his knees and crawled into the living room as fast as he could, to take cover behind a wall. Curling up in the corner of the room, near the window, Brady waited and listened to be sure he hadn't woken his mother. The silence was unending, so quiet that it seemed loud, and for a moment Brady feared he had become deaf.

After sitting for what seemed like hours, Brady forced himself to his feet, pressing his back against the wall. He then slid against it, right to the entrance into the hall, and peered up the stairs. Fortunately, his clumsiness hadn't caused his mother to wake, and he shimmied around the corner towards the door.

Being outside at night was like being in a different world. Though the streetlamps provided enough light, their dim, golden rays gave the world an eerie feel. The grass had become moist and appeared as a metallic black, glowing like the scales of a thousand snakes, and the concrete carried a bronzed surface, which seemed to chime and echo with every trodden step. Not only did the world look surreal and uninviting, but it also seemed to have grown. The walk from Brady's house to Mark's felt as if it had tripled in distance, and with every taken step sounding like a standing ovation, Brady feared he'd wake the entire neighbourhood.

By the time he had made it to the gate of Mark's backyard, Brady had become worried that it had taken him too long to arrive and Mark would have given up and gone to bed. Never before had he wished to possess a watch or at least remembered to have brought his iPod, but as he quietly waited for Mark to let him in, he couldn't be sure if he had arrived too late. Having started his escape at half-past-eleven, Brady thought he'd have more than enough time. However, he hadn't planned for his overactive imagination or his near-overdose of adrenaline to work against him.

Having been standing by the yard's entrance for several minutes, Brady realized how exposed he was to anyone who cared to look across the street, and he reached over the gate for the latch. Mark's backyard was the complete opposite of the street. In daylight, the grass seemed to stretch for miles, but the depths of night had transformed the yard into an empty void. It was like being locked in a crate and then thrown into a bottomless pit at the same time. Except the air was so thick that it prevented you from falling, leaving you suspended in nothingness for all of eternity.

With his arms stretched out in front of him, Brady cautiously guided himself into the yard. Suddenly, he heard the gate squeal and then a groan from behind him, and, in fright, Brady fell to the ground.

"Brady?" whispered a voice, like the hiss of a serpent's tongue. "Brady are you back here?"

Unable to distinguish whose voice was calling to him, Brady remained quiet and tried to shimmy himself towards the fence. "Brady, it's Mark," introduced the voice. "Are you here?"

At first, Brady couldn't reply. The fear of Mark's probable insults and ridicule mixed with his memory of rejection. "Yeah," he forced himself to say. "I'm over here."

The sounds of feet sliding through the wet grass could be heard from several feet away. "I can't see a thing," said Mark, a little louder than before. "I got your message, but I thought you meant to meet you in your backyard."

"I'm sorry," was all Brady replied, still unable to stand up.

"It's cool. I worked it out when I heard your front door open -- everything's really loud at night, huh?" said Mark, unknowingly getting closer to Brady.

"No, I mean," said Brady, fumbling with his words. "I'm sorry about the other day, and ignoring you after."

"Can you come out from wherever you are? I messed up my back earlier and it hurts to walk."

Though feeling guilty, Brady was relieved to hear those words. Now he was sure that Mark wouldn't be able to give him a pounding. With that in mind, Brady climbed back to his feet and stepped forward, when, suddenly, his face bashed into Mark's. Both boys screamed and jumped back, but even after Brady recovered from the blow, Mark continued to groan.

"Shit that hurts," Mark finally managed to say. "What was that?"

"My head," admitted Brady. "Sorry... again."

Mark raised his arms in front himself, trying to avoid another collision, and found Brady standing right in front of him. "There you are," he said, touching both of Brady's shoulders. Brady stepped back, away from Mark, when he felt his touch. "Oh come on," Mark whined. "I'm not gonna bite yuh. Let's go lay in the grass; it hurts to stand," he suggested. "Take my hand."

Brady became even more nervous than he already was and stepped away from Mark. "Can't we just lie here?"

Though he knew Brady couldn't see him, Mark shook his head 'no' and reached for his hand. "It'll be better in the middle of the yard. It feels weird here, and that way we won't wake anyone up. Now come on."

In slight reluctance, Brady found Mark's hand and held it in his own. On contact, a wave of shivers flooded across his body, and even though he hated himself for it, it was the greatest feeling he had ever experienced. Mark's hand was so soft and warm, and his grip was so snug to his own that it felt like the most needed of hugs. "How far are we going?" asked Brady, starting to worry that his palm was becoming too sweaty.

"Just keep going," Mark instructed. "But go a little slower, would yuh? Every time I take a step it feels like my spine is going to pop out of my arse."

Too afraid to laugh, Brady slowed his pace and let Mark lead the way. With every second or third step, Mark's grip would squeeze Brady's, as a jolt of pain surged down his back, straight to the end of his tailbone. Finally, Mark stopped and, disappointing Brady, he let go of his hand. "Right here's good," he declared and slowly hunched himself over and lowered to the grass.

Brady sat down in the grass, several feet away from Mark. They didn't speak for an awkward amount of time and just allowed themselves to ponder on their own thoughts. Mark, lying flat on his back, picked at the grass on either side of him, and Brady rested his chin in his hands with his legs crossed and his back slouched. Eventually, though, Brady couldn't stomach the silence any longer. "Why did you come?" he asked, not entirely sure why but didn't know where else to start.

"What? Here?" replied Mark, turning his head to where he could hear Brady. "Because you asked me to."

"So -- you don't hate me then?"

Mark pulled another handfull of grass from the ground and dropped it on his stomach. "'Course not. If I did, I wouldn't have gone and bought that game -- which, by the way, I still don't get."

"I dunno," shrugged Brady. "I just figured; well, you know."

"Do you really think I'm that much of an ass?" asked Mark, nearly sitting up to face Brady, but his back prevented him from moving and stiffened, instead.

"No," Brady dropped his hands to the ground and started picking at the grass as well. "I just didn't think you'd want to see me anymore."

Mark didn't reply right away. He could tell that Brady was nearing the threshold of tears, and Mark didn't want to say anything stupid. "Let's just forget it, okay? It was an accident," he suggested. "I just freaked, that's all. I wasn't expecting you to," Mark paused. "I didn't realize you were..."

"A fag?" blurted Brady, so that Mark wouldn't have to say it.

"No," denied Mark. "That you were into me like that. I don't care if you're gay. We can still be friends, can't we?"

Brady felt his heart sink, he wasn't exactly sure why. He was relieved that Mark didn't hate him or wasn't going to beat him senseless, but hearing him say, out loud, that he wanted to be 'friends' seemed to be like piercing a stake through his heart. "Yeah," Brady finally replied. "You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" he asked hesitantly.

"Course not. Why the hell would I?" Mark's tone sounded like he was offended, which caused Brady to fall into silence. After a while, realizing the next step was up to him, Mark reached out his hand and placed it on Brady's knee. "You should lie down. The sky looks awesome from here."

Brady looked up at the moon. It was almost directly above them and glowed like polished silver with a dusting of golden-yellow. The sky itself didn't seem so dark anymore, and above them they could see thousands of stars, bordered by the branches of trees. Brady stretched out his legs and laid down next to Mark, making sure not to get too close.

Both boys stared up at the sky, their arms laying limp at their sides. In the distance they could hear a plane approaching and the slight echo of train carriages crashing together. The black of night seemed less intimidating now, as their vision had begun to adjust and was now able to cut through the darkness. The leaves on the trees gently swayed and rattled with the breeze; illuminated by the moon's light, they looked just like rippling waves gently rolling against the coast.

For the briefest of moments, Brady was brought back in time, to the last night he spent with his father. At first, he thought he might cry, but the memory was interrupted by Mark, who had suddenly grabbed and squeezed Brady's hand as he winced in pain. Realizing that the sudden contact had derived through unsuspected agony, Brady expected Mark to let go immediately after, but as time went by his grip only settled and relaxed. Although he first enjoyed the contact, Brady soon became weary of it. The ache in his chest kept messing with his thoughts, and he tried not to read into Mark's unknowing gesture.

"This is cool," Mark said and turned his head to look at Brady.

"Yeah. It's kinda like camping." Feeling Mark staring at him, Brady turned his head to see why. "What? Is something on my face?"

Mark snickered and shook his head. "Damned if I know. I can barely see you."

Brady returned his gaze to the moon. "Does the sky look different in Cambridge?"

"Uh, a bit, I guess," replied Mark. "In the day it looks a bit different; its a bit lighter here, I think."

Pondering on Mark's reply for a few seconds, Brady decided to change the subject. "Did you have to wear uniforms at school?"

Mark chuckled and looked back at Brady, hoping to see his reaction. "Why? Do boys in uniform turn your crank?"

"Nah," replied Brady, partially lying and slightly embarrassed. "Just wondering."

"Admit it," Mark teased, but then realized he may have offended him. "Sorry. I'll let it go."

"It's cool," decided Brady. "I'm just not used to talking about that kind of thing, and you keep confusing me."

"I do?" Mark tried to sit up again. but his back had now become so stiff that his movement was only noticed by his hand suddenly squeezing Brady's.

"Yeah. I don't get you sometimes," Brady explained.

"How?"

"Like..." Brady moved the hand that was holding Mark's, just enough to show what he was talking about. "Like that."

"Oh," realized Mark. "Does it bug you?"

Brady shook his head. "No, but I keep thinking it should bug you, you know?"

"Just because I'm not gay, doesn't mean I don't like you," Mark tried to explain. "I mean, it's not like I hold everyone's hand, but I figured -- okay, so it just kinda happened -- but I didn't think it would be such a big deal."

Feeling Mark's hand release his own, Brady instantly regretted his words. "I'm sorry. I guess it's not. It's just..."

"You're afraid you're going to kiss me again?" asked Mark, seemingly reading Brady's mind.

"Yeah. Something like that."

Mark stared up at the sky as he battled with his own thoughts. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, and feared if he did say something that it would send them both back to ignoring each other. He felt strange inside, like his lungs had deflated and forgotten how to move. Brady had become so quiet again, that he worried that the next thing that was said would be 'good bye'. Mark didn't know what to do. He knew he couldn't rely on his brain to help him out with the right words to say, and the rest of him had become a complete sack of dried-up jelly. He was on his own, that much was obvious, so he worked on impulse. Quietly, Mark turned onto his side, suppressing his overwhelming need to scream in pain, and without being completely sure why, pressed his lips against Brady's cheek.

Startled, Brady turned his head to face Mark, who looked more terrified than in pain, and stared him in the eyes. Mark didn't say a word and just stared back, while carefully rolling backwards to his previous position on his back. "Why?" was all Brady could say.

Mark smiled and wrapped his fingers around Brady's hand. "Because now you can stop worrying."

Brady was stunned and unable to form even a full thought, much less a verbalized reaction. He couldn't work out what Mark meant, or what Mark thought he meant. Worrying may no longer be the issue, but his confusion had now grown to the equivalent size of a gas giant. Feeling his heart racing and his entire body begin to glow, Brady squeezed Mark's hand and stared up at the sky.

For a while, Brady was quite content with their mutual silence, but as uncertainty continued gnawing at his thoughts, he had to ask, "I thought you weren't gay?"

"I'm not," replied Mark, after a long, almost agonizing pause.

Feeling conflicted with Mark's response, Brady looked over at Mark, staring up at the sky, and tried to read his expression. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Mark turned his head and looked at Brady. "I don't know what it means. Can't we just forget about it?"

Now frustrated, Brady resumed looking up at the sky and tried to suppress his thoughts.

"Ever wonder why some people love camping and other people hate it?" asked Mark, as if he were recalling a distant memory.

"Not really," replied Brady. "Why?"

Mark continued, "I think it's because some people don't understand it, you know? When they think about it, all they can picture is the lumpy ground and the cold nights, with all the bugs and over-cooked food."

"I love camping," Brady sighed nostalgically. "It used to be like a second home for me."

"Yeah, but a lot of people don't get that. They think it's gross -- My dad hates camping."

Brady turned and stared at Mark. "We're not talking about camping are we?"

"Sure we are," insisted Mark. "But I'm not completely sure I understand it, either."