The Letter

Authors Note - I do not own any of the characters used in this fanfiction other than Tracey and Michael's father (although both characters were mentioned in the original film, neither were given any character or name).

Also, this is my first time writing a proper fanfiction, so any reviews and criticism is welcome! Please let me know if you find any mistakes in the writing.

Thank you and enjoy! Arbee x

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'Michael, post!'

Michael Caffry's eyes flickered open at the sound of his Dad's voice. Disorientated, he rolled over and stared across his room at his clock, it was 8:30 in the morning. Michael groaned, he wasn't used to being woken up on the weekends, his mother's job meant that she was away all of the weekend and Michael only got to see her in the evenings during the week, if that. His dad, on the other hand, was normally too pissed to even remember that he had a son, let alone to wake him up in the morning. It was the norm for Michael to sleep in until at least 11, grab something to eat and then be out of the house half an hour later.

Michael sat up in bed wearily and rubbed at his eyes, as he did so he noticed blue powder coming away from his face and smudging itself across his hands.

'Oh no…' He mumbled, letting his eyes shut for a moment as he remembered his encounter with his sister's makeup box the previous night.

Michael often found himself delving through his sister's makeup; he was also a regular visitor to her wardrobe, although not too much lately, after she had almost caught him parading around in her best party dress. He'd been forced to hide in the bathroom for about an hour; until he was sure the coast was clear to return the dress without her noticing it had gone. No, he didn't want to risk being in that situation again.

Yawning, Michael swung his legs out from under the covers, but swiftly returned them to their warm abode when he felt the stark cold air stabbing at his bare skin.

'Christ!' he exclaimed with a shiver. Michael didn't do well in the winter time, he was very sensitive to the cold and liked to bundle himself up in layers upon layers, if only just to sit around the house. So, knowing this, Michael wrapped his duvet around himself and made a mad dash for his sock draw, grabbed a pair and quickly put them on. That way, at least his feet wouldn't freeze.

After decided he was too tired to make the effort of putting on trousers, he made his way to the bathroom, still wearing the duvet, to remove the evidence of his indulgences of the night before.

Michael had a habit of watching the ground when he was walking; kids at his school seemed to get kicks from tripping him up in the corridors, so he had trained himself to keep an eye out for them, to avoid further unnecessary embarrassment, which would give them even more excuses to tease him. Unfortunately, this method of walking had its flaws; one of these became apparent to Michael when he walked straight into his sister, who had stormed out of her room at the precise moment Michael was passing. Michael jumped backwards, shocked.

'Why don't you mind where you're going you little shite,' His sister spat at him.

'Piss off, Tracey,' Michael retorted.

Tracey was a tall, slim figure of a girl; she had long, dark brown, almost black hair, which was almost always pulled into a loose pony tail. She had large deep brown eyes and looked very much like an older, female version of Michael. For a 16 year old girl, she was very popular with older men, she brought home boyfriend after boyfriend all of whom were in their twenties. Not only that but she was also notorious for 'getting around' most of the boys in her own year. Needless to say, Tracey found it hard to sustain a relationship with anyone and was widely known as the 'village bike'. This being said, Tracey was almost as much of a loner as Michael was, all the girls in the area despised her and the boys had no respect for her. Michael would have felt quite sorry for Tracey, if she wasn't such a bitch to him all the time.

Tracey had a lot of anger problems, if something wasn't done exactly the way she wanted it to be done, she'd scream, swear and generally shout her mouth off at anyone who happened to be in the same room as her. She was also prone to trying to use Michael as a punch bag, to relieve her of frustration. Unfortunately for her, Michael was pretty good at dodging her attacks and managed to wriggle his way out of these situations. However, on those occasions where she did manage to land a kick or a punch, they hurt and Michael, although he'd never admit it, was quite frightened of Tracey when she got into one of her uncontrollable rages.

At Michael's remark, Tracey's lip curled nastily and her eyes narrowed, she grabbed Michael by the arm.

'Oi!' yelled Michael, struggling to get away, his duvet falling off his one shoulders as he did so 'Geroff!'

Tracey tightened her grip on his arm and stared hatefully into his face, noticing as she did so the remaining blue substance adhering Michael's eyes.

'What the fuck's that on your face?' She demanded.

Michaels eye's widened and he pushed her away from him, letting the duvet slip of the remaining shoulder it was hanging from and fall to the ground 'Nothin'' he said, avoiding her gaze.

'Have you been going through my make up again?' Tracey yelled at him, 'You little poof, we should get the fucking nut house onto you, you bent bastard…'

Tracey's blunt and harsh comment saw Michael give her an almighty shove that slammed her into the wall. He then continued towards the bathroom yelling as he went:

'Will you just shut up and go blow one of your middle aged perverts, you frigging dirty tart!'

He slammed the bathroom door, locked it and listened as Tracey's maddened yells got quieter as she no doubt went to whine to his dad about how his son was a 'fucking useless fairy.'

Michael moved over to the sink, turned on the tap, grabbed the soap and began scrubbing at his eyes and face. He made the mistake of opening his eyes to look at himself in the mirror, letting the soap drip into them.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' he cursed, noticing the stinging pain at once, he shut his eyes tightly and grasped blindly for the source of the water. On finding it, he splashed his face with water making sure all the soap was gone from his eyes. With a sigh he stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, before grabbing his toothbrush and quickly cleaning his teeth. After checking the mirror once more to make sure all the blue was gone from his face, he unlocked the bathroom door and headed for the stairs.

On arriving downstairs, Michael found his dad sitting in the living room armchair, reading the paper. The TV was on and Michael saw that Margaret Thatcher was giving a speech about something that Michael neither knew, nor cared about. Michael didn't really understand why everybody hated Margaret Thatcher, she seemed okay to him, a bit up herself admittedly, but still okay. He knew it had something to do with the Miner's strike a while back, but he'd never really bothered to ask questions into the subject. Then again, who was there to ask? His dad was hardly a bank of information on such topics and none of the kids in the neighborhood knew anything about politics. After a while of pondering this, Michael came to the conclusion that he was probably just better off blissfully unaware when it came to Political matters.

Michael's Dad turned to look at him as he entered the room.

'Mornin' son,' he said briefly, returning to his newspaper once more.

'Mornin'' mumbled Michael.

'I've heard you've been putting on our Tracey's make up.' Although he didn't sound angry, Michael knew his Dad wasn't pleased about this. He always avoided Michael's gaze and asked him a testing question, before exploding if he didn't receive the answer he wanted to hear.

'No, no I haven't.' said Michael nervously and quickly, knowing it was best to keep his answers short with his father.

'You better be telling the truth my son, because if I ever find out that you've been lying to me, there will be serious consequences, is that clear?'

'Aye,' Michael frowned at the back of his fathers head. Michael knew very well that his dad enjoyed dressing up in his mother's clothes, whenever he thought everyone was out. Michael had watched him from the confines of his room many times before. Why was it that he could do it, but if Michael even thought of dressing up, he'd get a hiding? It didn't seem fair at all.

'Good.' There was a pause and his father seemed satisfied, 'A letter's come for youze,' His father held out a small white envelope for Michael, which he took and looked confusedly at, before opening it. Inside the envelope was a small piece of crumpled paper, which was covered in messy black handwriting. At the top of the letter, there was a bold letter head which read: The Royal Ballet School.

Michael took a sharp in take of breath and whispered amazedly 'Billy…' He slumped into an armchair on the opposite side of the room to read further.

Hullo Michael,

It's been a while, hasn't it? How long as it been since I last talked to you face to face, a year or two? Well, a long time anyway.

Sorry I haven't written to you in ages, I haven't had much time. They work us so hard here; I'm basically asleep by 7 at night. I'm still enjoying it here though and I'm sure you haven't missed my letters that much anyway, I'm a bit of a boring sod when it comes to writing my feelings down.

Michael snorted "You want a bet?" he thought to himself.

He'd been really upset when Billy had stopped writing to him; he kept wondering whether Billy was angry at him and whether he should write and apologize, but decided that it would seem a bit desperate, especially since he didn't even know what he was supposed to be apologizing for and he didn't want Billy to feel pressured into writing back, just to keep him happy.

After months of waiting, Michael had given up on Billy ever writing to him again and tried to move on with his life. This, however, Michael found to be quite difficult, what with his only friend being Debbie, who was hardly a replacement for Billy. He could tell Billy anything, if he ever told Debbie anything personal he was sure it'd be spread around the whole neighborhood by the end of the week.

Through the loneliness of a life without Billy, he found himself reliving over and over the time he'd spent with Billy, while he was still with him. Especially the last time he ever saw Billy, where he had given Michael a kiss goodbye. This small action was the ultimate acceptance for Michael, because as well as Billy being his best friend; over the years Michael had developed rather the crush on Billy and to have his kiss returned, meant the world to Michael. It proved Billy didn't care whether he was gay, straight or otherwise, he just liked Michael for being himself and was still happy to be his friend.

He smiled as the memory replayed once more in his mind and then returned his gaze to the letter:

I hope you're doing alright, mate. But anyway, the reason I'm writing to you now is I wanted to let you know, I'm coming home for Christmas! Yeah, Dad and our Tony have been saving up for me to come home from London and spend Christmas with the family. Nana's getting on a bit now and Dad says he thinks it's important I get to see her before she goes. Me and you'll have to meet up; we've got a lot to catch up on.

See you on the 19th

Billy

Michael stared at the page and re-read the last paragraph. Billy was coming home, finally, after all this time he would see his best friend again. Before now, Jackie and Tony had never had the money to pay for Billy take the train home and to provide for him during the time he stayed with them. It was fantastic news that they'd finally managed afford for him to come home, especially for Christmas.

Michael was elated, he folded the letter and put it back in its envelope.

'Well, who's it from?' his dad's voice broke his train of thought.

'Oh Billy,' Michael replied. 'Billy Elliot.'

'The kid who joined the Ballet School?'

'Yeah.'

Michael's dad nodded and said nothing more.

'He's coming home for Christmas, dad,' continued Michael, 'Says he'll be here on the 19th.'

'I didn't ask for his bloody life story, son. Now go and get some clothes on, and get out from under my nose.'

'Okay Dad.' Michael replied and headed upstairs once more, now used to his dad's strange mood swings.

Normally, Michael would've felt quite annoyed and hurt at his dad's blunt remark and blatant lack of respect for him. But not today, nothing could bring him down today.

Billy Elliot was coming home.