John knows how to be quick, how to avoid blows. He also knows when there is no escape. His body tenses.

‘Good morrow,’ John squeaks at the stranger. He hates the sound of his voice. He hates that he’s greeting his attacker, when any other boy would already be in a scuffle, always choosing to go down fighting. That’s how you’re supposed to act, but being far from home in a whole new city hasn’t changed the fact he does everything wrong.

The stranger doesn’t seem to hear him, tears off their cape, expertly folded it into a small square and threw it to the ground.

Without the cape, even in the gloomy shadows of the alleyway, it’s now clear to see the stranger is a boy. Taller and broader than John, but with a youthful, open face. John can make out freckles on pale skin, hair as red as the sunrise on a clear day, and green eyes that sparkle like the hobgoblin’s.

‘Do you … do you mean to do me harm?’ The words are living things, scared to leave his mouth.

No. This won’t do. He has to be stronger. He forces himself to stand up as tall as he can. He holds Jetta’s clothes in one arm and turns the other hand into a tight, trembling fist.

The flame-haired boy’s eyebrows shoot up, but instead of answering John, he responds with his own question, his face full of laughter and mischief. ‘Help me?’  

John tries to keep his voice hard. ‘Why?’

‘By my troth, I’ll make it worth your while.’ The boy winks.

He’s unlike anyone else John’s encountered. Some sort of starry light hangs around him, an aura of … what? Maybe this is all a test, sent by the Faerie Queene?

John blinks. The stranger doesn’t transform into a monster or an animal, but remains a boy with dancing green eyes.

‘What do you need me to do?’ John asks.

The answer comes in the form of hands gripping his waist, a body leaning into him, and full, warm lips pressing against his own.

John splays his empty hand against the wall, unsure where to put it, unsure where to put anything. He holds his bundle wedged between them, the familiar fabric against his palm, and the unknown material of the boy’s clothes pushing into his knuckles. The boy’s form moulds around the obstruction as if it’s part of John’s body. John’s mouth falls open, or the other boy’s tongue pushes his lips apart. The moistness, the heat and the boldness of the kiss seem to trap the very air in John’s lungs.

The city fades. All that noise and stench, subdued by the small sound of lips moving against his, and the taste of hot apples. John realises he’s closed his eyes, and they flicker open. The other boy’s looking sideways at the entrance to the alleyway. Perhaps this is completely normal and unremarkable in this place… boys kissing other boys?

A whimper escapes from John and disappears into the other boy’s mouth.

The boy steps back with a laugh, and thumps the wall with the side of his fist. ‘Od’s bod!’

John jumps, dropping the bundle of Jetta’s clothes. He bends down to retrieve them, but the boy has too, and John’s head bumps his shoulder. As John grapples with his cap to stop his hair escaping, the boy picks up the clothes and tucks them under his arm.

The smell of the city is returning. John stares at this strange boy casually holding Jetta’s clothes, unaware of his fingers tracing the lines of his own lips.