Disclaimer: Skins is the intellectual property of its creators – Bryan Elsley, Jamie Brittain and Channel 4.

Warnings : Swearing, drugs, manlove.

"Don't worry about it," Maxxie's mum said with too much careful softness in her voice, patting his arm in a way which was supposed to be reassuring.

"I'm not worried!" he snapped back.

"I know, dear." They puffed another few steps up the hill. "I'm sure it'll all be fine."

Maxxie hefted the vacuum cleaner onto his other shoulder. "Why don't the Stonems have their own hoover?"

"I don't know, love. There's been a lot going on over there."

"I thought you'd stopped cleaning for them."

"I'm just helping out. Anthea asked me to help out, so that's what I'm doing." Jackie Oliver looked into her son's grumpy face. She missed his bright smile; he'd been wearing that pouty frown since he'd turned up unexpectedly from London four days before. "You don't have to come with me."

"How else do you think you'll get all this junk up there?" Normally he would have said 'shit' instead of 'junk', but she was still his mum.

"Well, I'm very grateful." She pushed the dark hair away from her face with the hand carrying the carrier bag full of bleaches and sprays. In her other was a bucket and mop.

"You sure you need all of this? They've got no cleaning stuff of their own any more?"

"To be honest, love, I don't know what they've got and what they haven't. And I don't really know what state we're going to find the place in." She said again, "There's been a lot going on over there."

"You said Effy's in hospital?"

Jackie lowered her voice. "In mental hospital. Well, you know, she always was delicate."

Delicate? Maxxie remembered her as a pill-guzzling little tramp; he'd had a soft spot for little Effy.

"All that not talking," Jackie added.

Oh, 'delicate' was code for 'weird'!

"Tony not coming home to see her?"

"Doesn't look like it. You wanted to see him?"

"No!" Maxxie wasn't in the mood to see anyone, he didn't want to have to explain anything to anyone. "Is their Dad around?" He'd heard about the divorce.

His mum sighed. "No, poor Anthea's having to cope with everything on her own." A few more steps. "I s'pose she's made her own bed in a way." Another sigh, more steps, panting as the slope got steeper. "Still, his own daughter. You'd think ..."

"Anthea's at the hospital with Effy today?"

"Yes, I'm using my spare key. We'll have the house to ourselves."

The place was trashed when they got there. Maxxie had seen it in a mess before – when Mrs Stonem had taken to her bed, suffering her own little 'delicacy' – but this was something way beyond that. He knew the house almost as well as his own. As a kid he'd come with his Mum when she was cleaning it and minding Tony and Effy. Later he'd been here hanging out with Tony. Then there had been Tony's accident and he had come round to help out sometimes. Maybe not as often as he could have done, but he had been more use than most of Tony's mates.

Tony had got better and gone to University; Maxxie had moved to London to become a star. They had lost contact.

Much of the house was barely recognisable, but his feet found the familiar way to Tony's bedroom. His Mum's "tutt"ing receded with each stair. Tony's duvet cover wasn't there. That was a shame, the naked bloke on it had been fit. It had been replaced by something nondescript and blueish. The whole room was almost Tony's, but not quite. It had been swamped by events. A piece of the mental map of Maxxie's youth had been erased. He walked over discarded damp towels and scraps of paper to the window.

The view was the same. It was the wrong time of day to watch the bird opposite stripping. Not that he wanted to. Tony had liked it. Maxxie wondered whether she bothered to leave the curtains open any more now that Tony was gone. She might not even live there any more.

"What the fuck?"

Maxxie jumped as though he'd been electrocuted. A man's voice: he was still absorbing the fact as he turned round. Then he saw him. He wasn't a man, exactly, not yet; he looked to be a couple of years younger than Maxxie. He was sitting up in the bed wearing a shocked expression, sleep-tousled hair and not much more. The duvet covered him from the waist down, revealing a young, skinny, hairless chest. He was dark and handsome. He looked like he might be tall like the cliché, too.

When he'd come into the room, Maxxie hadn't noticed him at all; he must have been right underneath the covers and deeply asleep. Maxxie stood still and stared. He must have looked like a right weirdo. The dark youngster glared at him and said, slowly, threateningly: "What are you doing here?"

"Er, sorry." Maxxie remembered to do that breathing in and out which normally came so naturally. "My Mum's cleaning, she's the cleaner, she's downstairs. We didn't think there was anybody home. Right, so you're ...?"

"You thought you'd check the place out? See what's left that's worth anything?"

Maxxie's furious horror at being accused of being a thief overrode all his other reactions. "Tony's a mate of mine! What are you doing in his bed?"

"Oh, Tony!" The boy's generous mouth twisted into a disgusted sneer. "The useless big brother who couldn't even be bothered to ..." clearly he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"You're in his bed," Maxxie reminded him.

"Anthea said I should get some kip here. I've been up at the hospital all night. Not that it's any of your business."

"With Effy?" Maxxie's voice was soft.

The boy nodded.

"You her boyfriend?" His Mum had mentioned some devoted boyfriend.

"I think so," he muttered. Then he reached out his hand. His arm was all perfect sculpted muscle under smooth olive skin. He shook his head. "Sorry, mate. So knackered. I'm Freddie."

Maxxie's breath caught again as he clasped the large, sleep-warmed hand. "Maxxie," he managed.

Freddie nodded determinedly, as though he'd just lodged that name permanently in his mind. His eyes were glazed and distracted, though. Maxxie thought there was very little chance that it had registered at all. "So, do you know why Tony never comes home, then?" Freddie's tone was accusatory.

Maxxie shrugged. Tony did whatever he wanted; he always had done. If he stayed away then that just meant that there were better times to be had elsewhere.

Freddie shifted over and patted the bed next to him. He reached under the pillow and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, opened the packet, offered them to Maxxie.

"You were sleeping. You need your sleep. I should go."

Freddie shrugged a broad shoulder – too deliciously broad for his smooth, slim chest – and said, "I'm awake now." He put the pack of smokes to his mouth and took one between mobile lips, then proffered them to Maxxie again. Maxxie knew he shouldn't, knew how bad it was for his singing voice, but he stepped closer and took one anyway. He half hoped that Freddie would light it for him (gazing into his eyes like they were in a black and white movie perhaps) but instead, he lit his own then handed the lighter to Maxxie.

He patted the mattress in invitation again and Maxxie knew that was a really bad idea, too, but he gave into temptation and sat. He sat with his back to Effy's boyfriend, his feet on the floor, his hands hanging down between his knees, and blew smoke out into the room. He kept his gaze on the window to stop himself from looking to see if Freddie really was completely naked.

"I lost touch with Tony, to be honest. Lost touch with most of my old mates." He paused. "All of them now, I guess." He couldn't see himself talking to Anwar again, not now. He had lost everything in one moment: home, best friend, boyfriend. That second had taken them away, the second it had taken him to open the bathroom door. Anwar and James had been in the shower together. He'd gone back to the flat to brush his teeth again. He knew his smile was one of his assets and he'd been just about to get on the tube train when he'd decided to go back for an extra brush.

In the end he'd been late for the audition – though not by much. After, he hadn't been able to face going to the home the three of them had shared. He hadn't wanted to hear their excuses. Instead he'd gone to Victoria station and got on a coach going back to Bristol. He was pretty sure he'd failed that audition anyway.

"D'you think it would help Effy if Tony came home?" he asked, just to change the subject of his thoughts.

Freddie sighed. It was a weary, hopeless sound. "Might do." There was the sound of him crinkling up the cellophane round the cigarette packet. "I don't know. Probably not. Nothing does."

Maxxie noticed that Freddie's big hands were rubbing over his own face, before he noticed that he'd turned round to look at Freddie. He hadn't meant to do that.

"You knew Tony well, then?"

"Yeah, really well." For some reason he wasn't thinking about their shared childhood, or helping him to relearn writing; he was remembering that one blow job in that ratty hostel. This was not a good time to be thinking about oral sex. He was on a bed with a good-looking, possibly naked boy who was about the same age as they had been then. It had been one of the least satisfying sexual encounters of his life; but a crap orgasm's still an orgasm.

Maxxie shifted his position and looked away again. "At least Effy's got you," he said, to remind himself that this was a straight guy with a girlfriend. The same as Tony had been in Russia, he remembered.

He heard the flint sparking beside him. Another smoke so soon? Air rushed audibly through Freddie's nose. "She doesn't want to see me any more," he said in a flat voice.

Before he could stop himself, Maxxie found that he had turned round and he was patting one of those perfect arms. "How come?"

"Her therapist's convinced her that everything's my fault." His voice was halting, choked up, exhausted. Tears began to twinkle unshed in his deep brown eyes.

Without thought, Maxxie put his arms round him and lowered Freddie's head onto his shoulder. It had nothing to do with sex; he couldn't watch someone hurting that much and do nothing to comfort them. They hugged tightly for a moment. Then Freddie froze. He pulled back.

"Sorry," Maxxie said. "You don't know me. I shouldn't have." He moved back.

"It's not that." Freddie pulled the duvet higher, clutched it tighter to his chest. His expression was one of surprised fear. "I just haven't been touched in a while. I guess."

Maxxie stood up, to put some distance between them. He couldn't stop himself from raising an eyebrow, though, and asking, "You liked it, then?"

Freddie wasn't meeting his gaze. "S'pose," he muttered.

"You liked it more than you'd have liked to have liked it?" Maxxie teased.

"No!" Freddie snapped. "Just forgot I wasn't dressed."

Maxxie chuckled. "Should I go now?"

There was no answer, so Maxxie made for the door. As he reached it, Freddie suddenly asked, "Is your Mum going to be coming up here?"

"She was starting in the kitchen. Reckon it'll take her most of today to sort that out." Maxxie stood still, but he kept his back to the room.

They waited.

Freddie's swallow was audible. "I don't want to be on my own," he blurted.

"I could sit safely over here." Maxxie pulled the chair out from under the desk.

"Don't. Come back. Please."

Maxxie kept his hand on the back of the chair, but he faced the bed. He took a deep breath. It wasn't fair. Straight boys never had to come out, never had to make announcements about fancying girls. He should have been finished with all that in his mid-teens. But no, every time he met someone new he had to go through something which felt like an admission.

"Just so we're clear, I should probably mention at this point that I'm gay."

Brown eyes flicked all over the room as though the boy in the bed was doing mental arithmetic. "Is this awkward for you then?" he asked.

"Not for me."

The bare shoulders shrugged. "Me neither."

"You're ok with me sitting in your bed with you? You're allowed to freak out if you want to. I'm not going to report you for being politically incorrect."

"I don't care," Freddie replied firmly, a little aggressively.

Maxxie flashed his favourite grin at him – the one he knew brought out his cute dimples. "Does it turn you on?" He wasn't proud of himself, but he couldn't help having a little flirt.

Freddie lay back. "No," he said in his deadened, sad voice. "I just don't want to be alone in the silence. Thinking. That's all."

He looked utterly miserable. Maxxie's soft heart went out to him. He wished there was some way he could cheer him up.

Not a blow job. That had been Tony's solution and it had been a crass, tasteless one. It had made everything worse in the long run. It had made Maxxie feel so cheap and dirty that he'd had to confess to the whole class. Oral sex didn't make anybody happy, not really. Not if they were really unhappy. It was all he could think of though, it was the only cheerfulness he had to offer. He said nothing and stood still instead.

Freddie was looking at the ceiling when he said, "Are you going to stay over there? I could do with another hug."

"What if you get another, erm, reaction?" Maxxie asked.

Freddie shrugged. They waited. Freddie looked over at Maxxie. "Tell me a story," he said. "Talk to me."

"Thought you wanted a hug."

"That would be good too."

Maxxie wasn't sure what he was feeling as he crossed back over to the bed. He sat carefully on its edge. "Once upon a time ..." he began.

"A true story," Freddie said, "something I can believe in. And roll me a joint." He passed Maxxie a tin, then he lay back with his eyes closed.

Maxxie opened the tin. He pulled out three papers and began sticking them together. Between licks he told the story of the night Angie's boyfriend had tried to warn Chris off and of how his mates had piled into the fight. It was a long, deviating story, because Maxxie had to keep explaining who everybody was. When he got close to it, Maxxie realised that he probably shouldn't tell the ending of that story after all, not in their present positions, because the night had finished with him getting off with one of the blokes they'd been fighting. By then they were both lying down on the bed, passing the joint between them, Freddie under the covers, Maxxie with his trainers kicked off.

Belatedly, Maxxie remembered that his Mum was downstairs. Distracted by worrying about whether she was going to catch him smoking dope, he forgot to censor his tale and gave Freddie a few too many details about the locations of his opponent's tattoos. He'd been an experienced older bloke and more than happy to share his knowledge with an innocent-looking young lad. Very different from Tony Stonem.

When Freddie next passed the spliff back, his hand was shaking slightly.

"Sorry," Maxxie said, frowning. "T.M.I."

"Yeah. Just a bit."

"Grossed out?"

"Not exactly."

Maxxie giggled. It set Freddie off. It was lovely to hear him laughing instead of sighing. Their shoulders rubbed against each other. They calmed down gradually and lay quietly for a few minutes.

"Joint's finished," Maxxie said. He looked over to suggest rolling another and realised that Freddie was staring at him. "What?" he asked, the edges of paranoia creeping in, speeding his heart rate, reminding him why he'd stopped smoking weed.

"Nothing," Freddie replied in his smooth voice. He stared for a few moments more then growled, "Fuck it!" He rolled over onto Maxxie and brought their mouths together.

Maxxie's body responded without his permission. His lips and tongue moved against Freddie's. This was such a bad idea. Freddie's weight pressed down on him. Straight boys were always trouble. His hips ground up and rubbed his groin against the hard muscles of the younger guy's belly. His hands swept down the smooth skin of his back until his fingers were halted by elastic – a waistband; he wasn't completely naked, then. The door wasn't closed properly and his Mum was downstairs. Freddie's hot mouth moved down onto his neck.

Maxxie finally summoned the will power to pull away and open his eyes. "You've got a girlfriend," he panted.

"Don't think so. Not now."

Maxxie looked down onto the top of Freddie's head, at his smooth, black hair. He was pushing up Maxxie's T-shirt now, nibbling at his belly.

"My Mum. The door."

Freddie groaned with frustration and sat up. He was lonely, sad and vulnerable; it was all written in his hooded eyes. If this went any further then Maxxie would be taking advantage of all that. He was gorgeous, though, and his little black Calvins were straining to release his very excited cock.

"I'll lock the door," Freddie said. "We'll just have to be quiet."

He got off the bed and backed away, all the while staring at Maxxie, lying flushed, splayed out, and feeling more exposed than he usually did naked. Freddie closed the door silently and began to twist the key in the lock.

"Unless you don't want to," he said softly.

Maxxie's mouth went dry. He couldn't answer that. Did he want this? Well, his body did. "It's such a bad idea," he said, sitting half up on his elbows. Straight boys were always a bad idea.

With a serious expression, Freddie looked right into his eyes and asked, "Why?" He paused, but before Maxxie could find the words to reply, Freddie had jumped in again as though he was afraid of what he might hear: "I don't think it's a bad idea. I think we both want this and God knows I need something good, some comfort, just now."

"Effy," Maxxie said.

"Doesn't want me." Freddie sighed. "I need to be wanted, Maxxie." He sat down on the bed. Their thighs were touching. Maxxie stared at the dark, soft hairs trailing over Freddie's. "You do want me, don't you?"

Freddie's eyes filled with anxiety and Maxxie couldn't help himself: he sat up a bit higher and ran his hand down Freddie's face. His eyes followed and by the time they had both reached the mouth, his head was moving forward. Freddie crossed the last few inches and sealed the kiss.

It was deep, desperate kiss. They both moved together to pull Maxxie's T-shirt up off his head. Then the heated flesh of their bare chests made contact and they fell back onto the bed again, writhing and licking, the clothed bulges of their cocks making delicious contact. Maxxie was still convinced that this was a mistake. Straight boy in comfort sex: it had all worked out so badly in Russia. He was addicted to this, though, and he couldn't stop himself.

He hadn't realised how much he had missed this friction. He missed James' love, but he missed the contact of his body, too. He needed to be wanted as much as Freddie did. They were both lonely; they were both horny.

Freddie lay on top of him again, his body between Maxxie's thighs. Their pelvises ground out a rhythm between them. Soon Freddie's big fingers were tugging at the fastenings on Maxxie's jeans, then they were struggling together to shove the tight material down his legs.

Freddie was bigger than Maxxie, but his muscles had been built in dry gym work-outs, he was no match for Maxxie's fit dancer's body. Easily, he reversed their positions and then straddled him. He followed Freddie's eyeline to the bulge at the front of his lime green Aussie Bum briefs. Freddie looked intrigued but frightened, too.

"You don't have to touch it," Maxxie said.

Freddie licked his lips. "I want to. I don't want to fuck things up, get it wrong, though."

"It's easy. Pretend it's your own. But you don't have to. It's ok."

He dropped his hand down in between their bodies and stroked up Freddie's clothed shaft. Freddie swore and his pelvis rose. He grabbed at the front of his Calvins and pulled down, freeing his long, purple, weeping cock. Maxxie's hand was on it immediately, stroking, pulling, rubbing. He wiped his palm over the damp head and brought his hand to his mouth to lick off the pre-come. Freddie watched him, stunned. Then Maxxie's wet hand was back on his prick, jerking it off, and Freddie's eyes closed.

For several minutes they both enjoyed the handjob. Freddie made the most beautiful, needy moans, his face coloured up and sweated adorably. Maxxie had just about convinced himself that a bow job wouldn't be such a bad idea after all, when Freddie's eyes opened again.

He loosened his grip on the duvet, which he'd been kneading and tearing at as his passion increased, spat on his palm, then hesitated for a moment with his hand wavering in the space between them. Then he lunged and shoved it down the front of Maxxie's underwear. He scrabbled for a moment, sorting out his angles. He had to balance himself by grabbing onto Maxxie's thigh with his other hand, but he got himself a fistful of prick.

He pulled and Maxxie stopped thinking. He was no longer aware of the movement of his own wrist, just of that big, hot hand bringing him quickly to the edge. Before he climaxed, he lay forwards so that their chests lay flat against each other, their handjobs wedged between them, and he got his tongue sloppily into Freddie's open mouth.

He orgasm burst through him; he was aware of a loud swearing and gasping below him. Then they lay still.

"Thanks, mate," Freddie said quietly.

"Was that alright?" Maxxie asked. He made to roll off but determined hands stopped him.

"Alright? Yeah. Just right."

"Good."

"Very good."

"How crap was I?" Freddie asked.

"Not crap at all. You sure that was your first time?"

Freddie laughed. "I would remember."

Maxxie wriggled himself free. He reached down the bed for his jeans. When he'd found them, he looked back, to see a hurt vulnerability in Freddie's face.

"I'm not fucking off," he said. He started searching his pockets. "Fuck! Forgot I don't smoke any more. Can I have one of yours?"

Freddie laughed. It was a deep, carefree, open-mouthed laugh. "Sure." He stuck his hand under the pillow. "If I can find them. Might just have moved."

Maxxie laughed. "You think there was a bit of movement in the bed?"

"Might just have been."

He found the smokes, though. Then the lighter. They lay back side by side again, smoking in their sticky underpants. Freddie began to yawn.

"I'd better go," Maxxie said. "Let you get some sleep."

"You don't have to."

"See if Mum needs a hand." Maxxie got the cig out from between Freddie's fingers before he drifted off.

He dressed and left, looking back once as he unlocked the door. The sleeping boy in the bed looked a lot more relaxed.

His Mum was on her hands and knees in the kitchen, scrubbing at something on the floor.

"Ready for a cup of tea?" he asked her.

"You still here?" She asked. Then she looked up at him. She beamed a huge smile. "What you been up to?"

"Nothing." He got his back to her, concentrated on the kettle.

"You look like a different person, like my usual happy Maxxie. What you done with that miserable sod they sent down from London?"