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It's funny, but all through that period, fifteen to eighteen, as Paul and I discovered the truth about ourselves, each other, sex and men in general, I never looked at him that way. Never.
    He was just Paulie, my best friend, the guy I'd known since pre-school. In my eyes he'd never changed from the kid I can still remember playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or crying because he'd fallen and hurt his knee. He was a constant in my life, the one thing I could always count on to be there.
    The kids at school called us queer long before any of us knew what it meant, or how it really applied to us. Teachers knew better than to try and split us up, and our parents were pretty tolerant too, I guess. I remember the occasional conversation, mum asking me if I had any other friends, or if I wanted them, but I never did. Paul was enough.
    "Hey slowcoach, what's up?"
    My best friend's slightly concerned expression startles me from my reveries and I realise that I've stopped jogging. I'm fucking freezing. Rubbing numb, reddened hands together, I blow on my fingers for warmth, the air leaving my body in smoky plumes, snatched away by the bitingly cold February wind.
    "Had enough?" Paul asks, bright eyes inquisitive. If I ever hear anyone say again that brown eyes are dull I think I'll knock them out. Paul's eyes aren't brown, they're bronze. Deep, shimmering, evanescent bronze.
    "Jackie? You okay?"
    I blink rapidly. Shit! "Fine, fine. Just tired." I shiver as a trickle of sweat runs down my clammy back like ice in these low temperatures.
    "Heavy night last night?" He asks, hooking an arm around my neck and leading me towards the park gates. I shake him off before I cave to the almost overwhelming urge to bury myself in his armpit and never let go. Not cool, Jack.
    "Don't call me Jackie," I grumble, giving him my best 'I'm mad at you' scowl. He grins back, eyes crinkling at the corners, perfect little white teeth standing neatly in a row. God, am I so far gone I think his dental work is sexy now? I don't even think there's a fetish for that.
    "Whatever, Jackie ." He reaches out and taps my bicep playfully with a closed fist, branding my skin.
    He's called me Jackie since forever. Jackie and Paulie, that was us. If anyone else dared to try I'd kill them, but Paul's different. As much as I protest I hate it, I don't and he knows. I probably tell him five times a day to stop calling me that, but if he ever did I think I'd shrivel up and die.
    Curtis hates it. He's Paul's boyfriend, they've been together almost a year and he strikes me as the jealous type. I suppose it couldn't have been easy for him when I landed back in Paul's life again six months ago after all those years apart, but I don't want to make this easy for him dammit, I want him gone.
    As I look at my best friend, smiling and chatting beside me while we lope down the quiet street, the guilt comes flooding back. Had I honestly expected Paul to wait for me? Why would he after what I said; after I moved three hundred miles away just to escape how he felt? It was a miracle he was even talking to me now. Who was I to come swanning back into his life after a seven-year hiatus and just expect to pick up right where we left off?
    We part at the end of the road, he to head back to the townhouse he shares with Curt, me back to my lonely little one bed flat. I watch him walking down the street, marvelling again that the beautiful man is really Paulie, my Paulie, the gangly lightweight I'd left behind when we were both eighteen.
    The years have been good to him, that's for sure. He's filled out in all the right places, finally grown into his five-ten frame (still shorter than my even six feet), his chest broadened, the hint of a six pack lurking underneath his sweaty T-shirt. Yeah, there's a reason I get up at six-thirty every Sunday to go running in circles like a fool. Wherever that tight, toned ass leads, I'll follow, daydreaming about wrapping his slim thighs around my waist and