Disclaimer: I don't own Billy Elliot or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

A/N: This is a very old story, written just after I read the book, hence the odd language.

It's funny, you know. Every time I hear anyone talking about me when they think I'm not listening, it's 'our Billy' this and 'our Billy' that. What's with all this 'our Billy' stuff, then? Jeez, it's like they all think they own a piece a' me, or something. I mean it's one thing when I hear Michael saying it, but it's just annoying to hear dad and Tony arguing over 'their Billy.' It's not like I ever talk about 'our Jackie' or 'our Tony.' Or 'our Michael.'

But that's different, that is. Michael isn't an 'our.' Dad doesn't think much of him, and Tony just refers to him as 'that sissy you hang with,' more often than not. No one at school should have a right to him either—they all pick on him like he's a bloody punching bag—they pick on him even more than on me. I don't know his family very well. Guess that just leaves me, then. Guess that makes him 'my Michael.'

I don't rightly know how my thoughts trailed off into that. Hasn't really got much to do with anything, it doesn't.

Now, back to something that does.

So anyhow, my Michael looks like a right pansy in a skirt.

What? He bloody does. Sitting there with his bare legs hanging over the bed, swinging back and forth with his ankles crossed. I worry about my Michael sometimes.

Okay, I worry a lot.

"I look good, then, aye?" he asked suddenly, and it made me jump a little. His head sort of rolled to the side, onto his shoulder, and he grinned at me. "You've been staring at me for a good five minutes, you dirty little bugger."

"You're wearing a skirt," I said, and my eyebrow rose. He looked down, and I repeated it anyway. "You're wearing a bloody skirt!"

"I'm just trying it on."

"It's a skirt!"

He looked down at the floor again. His ankles were still crossed, but they weren't swinging any more. I wasn't sure whether or not I ought to join him on the bed, though anything would be better than the doorway—at least if I sat there, I could shut the thing. What if his parents walked in on us? Christ!

I took a seat next to him as he mumbled. "So I don't look good, then?"

I wasn't sure what to say to that. "You look like a poof," was what came out.

"I'm not!"

That was expected. I couldn't help looking at him funny. "You're dressed like me Nan!"

"So? Me dad does it, and he's no poof."

"You don't know that."

"Shut it!"

We were both quiet for a minute. We were both looking down again, and that was just as weird. I still had my boxing shoes on. He was wearing his sister's ruby heels. I didn't say anything about it.

Our hands were almost touching, but I was trying not to think about that. I didn't mean to say what I did next. I really didn't.

"You look all right."

He smiled.

But that's the thing about my Michael. He doesn't just smile, you know? His cheeks go red, and his long eye lashes batter up, and his big brown eyes light up. At least, that's what he does with me. Haven't really seen him smile much elsewhere, though.

It kind a' makes me feel special.

His shoe hit mine. It was also really weird. I hit him back.

"How was boxing?" he asked. He sounded like he meant to be sincere, but it was easy to tell he wasn't that interested. Not into that sort of thing, my Michael. He'd rather just run away. Hid in corners all the time before I started sticking up for him, he did. Which was okay, 'cause it suits him just fine. He's weird like that. Rather run than fight.

I'm not afraid of a fight, even if it's directed at my Michael, miles away from me. "It was all right." And I think he knew I was lying.

He didn't say it, though. "It's all bullocks, anyhow."

He was right. So I didn't argue. My dad and Tony don't think so, but he's right all the same. Just 'cause my dad did it, and his dad did it, I'm supposed to do it too, but my Michael's right. What's the point in knowing how to punch someone's face in? There is none.

I don't know why I said what I said. That's been happening a lot lately. "The girls doing ballet on the other side of the gym had more fun than I did."

It was really stupid, but Michael kept it up, anyway. "What were they doing?"

"Spinning around and shite."

"Well, that doesn't sound very fun."

"It looked fun."

He gave me a funny look. Like he's got a right to be looking at anyone funny in that get up.

"Alright, then." He stood up and lifted himself right off the bed, in his little flowing flowered skirt, and his pink t-shirt, and his sister's red heel shoes. I stared at him for a moment, and he did a little twirl on the spot. His feet shuffled round, and his skirt picked up a bit. It was nothing like what the girls were doing, but I guess they'd had practice. "Like that?"

I shook my head. He looked a little disappointed. Well, what was he expecting? Talent like a ballerina? Probably didn't think there was much to it. But that's just my Michael.

"No, they were doin' it more like this." And I put my arms out without really thinking. They brushed his sides, and he didn't really do anything, so I got a good hold on his hips and moved him a little closer. "You got to make everything straight, like." He straightened out a bit. "Miss—that's what the girls were calling her—said you got to pick a spot on the wall." He looked straight above my head. "Now just go straight around and look at it again." His feet shuffled around, and I dropped my hands. "No! You just go on one foot!"

He stuck out his tongue. "You try it then! It's bloody hard!"

So I did. I stood up and showed him how to do it properly. Picking up your feet, and everything. I went an awful lot faster than he did. ...Only, I fell over. He laughed, and gave me a hand. I brushed it away. Stood up again. Twirled again. Fell over again.

"See," he laughed. "Harder than it looks, ain't it?"

I took his hand that time, and I sat back down on the bed. "It's for poofs, anyway."

"Not necessarily." He tried again, with only one foot. He went a lot slower than I did, and it didn't look very graceful, and his skirt lifted all the way up to show me his boxers.

He fell over too.

On top of me.

That was the weirdest thing yet.

It wasn't all that bad, really. He just sort of knocked into me, and I fell onto the bed, and he fell on top of me. He was really heavy, but not too heavy, just sort of the kind that makes you squirm. It was really warm, and his bare legs were spread around mine, and they were really smooth. Don't know why I was thinking about that...

"Sorry," he mumbled, but he didn't move. Well, his arms did. To either side of my head, like his legs around mine. He was really close. I didn't know what to do. Where to look. He was looking at me. Him and his big brown eyes...

I never realized how big they were before.

His breath was really funny, too. Heavy, like. I wondered if he thought mine was funny.

Then I pushed him off.

He rolled beside me and neither of us got up. "Yeah, it's real hard..." he trailed off. I didn't say anything.

The sides of our arms were touching now. They were even softer. Tony's got hair all over him, and I'm growing a bit, but my Michael was still completely smooth. And warm. Really warm. He was glowing. I probably was, too.

"Hey, Billy," he said, real quiet like. He rolled over on his side to face me, and he bit his lower lip. His mouth looked really red. I wouldn't be surprised if he were wearing his mam's lipstick, too. I wanted to say, 'what?' but I was too busy looking at him funny. "Do I really look all right?"

I rolled over and playfully punched him in the arm. "Bugger off."

He grinned.

And then frowned.

I don't like it when my Michael frowns. I don't know why, I just don't.

"Hey, Billy... have you ever been kissed?"

That was a right shock. I stared at him for a couple a' minutes, just looking blank. Where had that come from? What was I supposed to say? Aye, I guess, but I hadn't, 'cept by my mam. But that was a long time ago. I don't get kissed any more.


I wanted to ask, 'have you,' but didn't. He beat me to words, anyway.

"Hey, Billy... can I kiss you?"

And that was definitely, by far, the weirdest thing that had ever happened in my life. What kind of question's that? Michael's my best mate. Best mates don't go around kissing each other, not round here, anyway. So what was I supposed to say now? Nay, of course.


We were both quiet.

We were laying there, both on our sides, looking everywhere but each other, even though we were directly face-to-face. Then he pecked me on the cheek. Really quick, like. He'd done it before I'd even noticed. Just a quick press of warmth and it was gone. That wasn't a real kiss.

So I told him that. Aloud. "That wasn't a real kiss." And then I pushed him down a little. He lay flat on the bed, and I rolled over, on top of him this time. I kept my arms up from the beginning. I don't think he could support my weight. He's weaker than me, see. "If you're going to do it, do it right."

"That was me first time," Michael said softly.

I blinked. "Oh." And I didn't say, 'Mine too.'

"Can I do it again?" he asked.

I didn't say anything.

He put his hands up hesitantly. They brushed my shoulders, and his pretty eyelids fluttered up to me, and I just kept looking at him. I didn't know what to think. So I just let him keep going. His hands ran over my shoulders, and up around my neck, and they wrapped around it until it was more like I was supporting him than anything. He smiled at me. I might have smiled back. I don't know—I was in so much shock.

He kissed me on the lips, next. It was awkward, because his smooth knees kept bumping into my thighs, and his thin fingers started playing with my hair. I didn't really notice much of that, though. I was busy with our lips. Our faces. His nose kept bumping me.

And I was pretty sure that wasn't supposed to be it, so I tried something else. I stuck my tongue in his mouth. Pried open his lips, and pushed it right through. He made a small noise, and his eyes flapped open. I could tell because his lashes fluttered fast against my skin. I didn't open my eyes. I don't know why.

It was kind of wet, and a little hot, and I don't know why things kept moving, but they did.

And once we started... we didn't really stop...

He was right, though. It was loads more fun than boxing or spinning. All those losers at school, always picking on my Michael—if only they knew what they were missing. It wasn't all that special. But I really didn't like it when we stopped.

He blinked up at me, with those way-too-big brown eyes. And he smiled. Real wide. "So I do look all right then."

I rolled my eyes. "I said shut it, you dirty little poof."

And I stuck my tongue right back down his throat again. Serves him right for wearing lipstick. I just know that boys aren't supposed to have lips that soft.

There was a bang downstairs.

Michael shoved me off him. "Shite!" His pretty eyes were really wide.

"What's that?" I asked, but I already knew. I had to roll over again, because he shot off the bed and ripped the skirt off. I looked up at the ceiling.

"Me dad! He'll be drinking then—you'd better get out of here."

"What? No—" I started, then looked back down, but he was tugging on trousers, so I went back to the ceiling. "I'm not finished yet."

"Finished what, you prat?" He was back together now, was pulling off the shirt. His chest was smooth, too. Pale, with absolutely no muscles, but smooth. He pulled a darker shirt back on and started shuffling me towards to door.

"Shoes," I said absently, and he kicked them off. It's not that Michael's dad's real bad or anything, he just becomes a bother when he's pissed. We usually try to clear off by then. I only felt like clearing off if my Michael was coming.

So I tugged him along, out the back, and down the road. He grabbed some sneakers along the way and hopped a little while he tried to put them on. "Where are we going, then?" he asked, as I was leading the way.

I shrugged. "Dunno."

"What are we going to do, then?"

"Spin 'til we get it right?"

He tied the last knot and caught up with me. "You're not serious?"

I shrugged again. "Why not?"

Michael was silent for a moment. We started heading uphill, for the road. There's a pond there. Maybe spinning around is easier in water, first? You got the balance all set, then.

Then Michael started up again. "Will I get to kiss you?"


"Well if we get to do what you want and spin, why can't we do what I want and kiss?"

That was a fair point. And kissing wasn't so bad. It was kind of fun, actually.


He smiled.

My Michael looked good when he smiled.

But he looked better in a skirt.