Alan got locked in a closet again after maths. It wasn't exactly a surprise; getting ridiculed by the master while in class was a guaranteed recipe for harassment by the other boys afterward. Christopher never seemed to get the same reaction, even when he was on the other end of the coded note-passing, but then Christopher was different. People actually liked him. He was also incredibly reliable when it came to enacting rescues - they'd had plenty of practice over the last few years - so Alan tried very hard to ignore his incipient panic and instead focused on remembering what Christopher's note had said before their master had confiscated it. Alan had only managed a glimpse of it, just the first line, but even just from that much he could tell it was one of Christopher's new ciphers.

They did that, every once in a while - one of them (usually Christopher) would take a cipher they'd already established and tweak it a bit. Sometimes it took a while - days - to determine what the modifications were, but it was always deeply satisfying to be able to respond in kind. Something about communicating via secret cipher always tempted Alan to reveal more than he ought. It was hard to tell whether Christopher felt the same.

Alan had just about given up on solving anything and was verging on a full-on claustrophobic attack when the closet door was wrenched open. The worry on Christopher's face was embarrassingly reassuring.

"Sorry it took so long," Christopher panted, eyes wide. "I noticed you weren't with me, but they were guarding the hallway. I had to convince the house master to come poke about so they'd leave. Are you all right?"

Alan nodded, not trusting his voice. Christopher's appearance, more than even the open door, had caused his rising panic to disappear completely. In a way Alan wasn't entirely sure how to interpret.

"Come on." Christopher backed away, giving Alan space to clamber out of the narrow space, and together they headed toward the trees at the edge of the south field. Neither of them had to say anything - sometime after their friendship had mysteriously solidified, the oak nearest the science building had become their de facto retreat. Alan almost never went there without Christopher - it wasn't the same, somehow - but when they were together the quiet field was home. As much a home as any part of a school could be.

Christopher seemed content to let Alan muse for a while. The bullying was unquestionably getting worse: the other boys hadn't yet resorted to physical violence, beyond the incidental, but Thompson and Willis were both inordinately fond of threatening it. In a way that suggested they would dearly love to try out a few punches, just for experience's sake. And Alan was their preferred target, because . . .

Why?

"Why is it me?" Alan asked aloud. "I know it's because I'm different, but why must that always make me a target?"

Christopher didn't pretend to misunderstand, and didn't protest Alan's self-assessment. Because Alan was an "odd duck," as his mother cheerfully put it, and because unlike everyone else, Christopher never lied to him. "Some people don't like different," Christopher said matter-of-factly. "Some people are threatened by it."

"You're not."

Christopher looked at him, then, and Alan had to turn away. I hadn't meant it to come out quite like that. "That's true," Christopher replied with a tight nod. "But I rather like your brand of 'different.' Don't know why; I just do." He was silent for a long moment. "I suspect I may be 'different' too," he added quietly.

You . . . "Different how?"

Christopher exhaled and locked his eyes vaguely on the fence at the other side of the field. "They talk about girls."

"So do we, sometimes."

"Not like - not like that." Christopher shook his head, one corner of his mouth twitching sideways into a wince. "We talk about people. They talk about girls."

"Oh."

"Girls, as in - kissing. And touching. Bragging, mostly, but you can tell they . . . I don't know if I want to do that."

Alan had a strong suspicion this was one of those conversations where they were saying one thing and meaning something else, because Christopher couldn't possibly be saying what Alan thought he was saying. "You don't want to . . . brag?"

"Don't want to touch." Christopher dropped his head, twisting his fingers together in his lap. "I keep hoping it's just because I'm not old enough, that I'll start to feel that way soon, but I . . . haven't."

"I haven't either," Alan admitted. "I can't imagine that girls would be any more interested in talking with me than the boys are, though. Or - or any of those other things."

"Kissing?"

"Yes."

"Touching."

Alan slumped further, digging his spine into the trunk of the tree. "I'm not the most social person."

"You don't have to be." Christopher nudged Alan's foot with his own. "You just have to be you."

"Nobody likes me when I'm me."

A long pause. Then, quietly: "I like you."

Alan dared to look up. Christopher was watching him, brown eyes warm. Accepting. All the confusing longings Alan had been fighting bubbled their way to the surface, jostling for supremacy. It almost seemed as if-

No. It's not what you're thinking. Even if Christopher was hinting at something beyond simple friendship, acknowledging reciprocation would only serve to elevate the risk of consequences should Alan be wrong. And this was far, far more complicated than even the most clever cipher. "Thanks," Alan said instead.

Christopher watched him for a few more moments, as if expecting something more, but eventually he turned away and they both stared in parallel across the empty field. Boys were milling about in front of the school buildings, blissfully ignorant of anything actually important. There was just enough of a chill in the air for school dress to be comfortable and not stifling. The sun was high in the sky, casting short but distinct shadows from everything not already in the shade.

Alan cursed himself for being a coward, but he didn't - couldn't - put his thoughts into actual spoken words.

Maybe a cipher . . .