Teenage Queen

Jamie presses his hand palm flat against the window pane, the frosty condensation soaking his fingertips and sinking into the creases and folds of his skin. It settles in his life and love lines and fills him with an irrepressible cold shiver that creeps slowly up from the small of his back to the base of his neck and further still to crawl between the roots of his hair. It makes him shut his eyes and grimace to himself, his body still covered in the salt of a heated sweat barely over.
The street outside is a dark collection of shapeless masses, no feature distinguishable from the next due to the lack of electric lamps on this side of town. All he can identify are the chinks of dim television light coming from between the lace curtains of next door's living room and if he listens hard he can even hear the dull drone of a news reporter. Mrs Jones is a deaf old lady who lives very much alone, and keeps her shows on late into the night for company. If it was anyone else on the block Jamie might find it within himself to complain.
Bare chested and shaking he draws random patterns on the glass, the pass time a result of nervousness and fear he can't quite explain, not even to himself. He woke up frightened ten minutes ago, and his heart is still fiercely racing in his chest, tattooing a heavy rhythm behind his ribs and for the very life of him he can't understand. He doesn't think he can bring himself to go back to sleep, not just now, not with the dream waiting between the covers.
Jamie's arms are freckled with goosebumps and his cheeks are coloured a dull, dusty scarlet, the guilty trademark of a 16 year old boy. He's glad he neglected to turn on the light when he tumbled out of bed, because he doesn't want to see himself right now. He feels strange. He feels confused. The dream had been so vivid, so realistic, so passionate. Passionate. Frighteningly so.
It takes him several long seconds to fully realise what he's doing, that he's begun to strip off his pyjama pants and scrabble on the floor for his jeans. They're full of holes and rips and are more or less skin tight as he pulls them on, all the better really. He grabs an old band tee and one of the hooded jumpers slung over the back of his desk chair and dresses, not shaking any more but pale and purse-lipped. He has to get out of here, out of the room and out of the house and into the streets. The dream can't reach him in the streets and he needs to think, he wants to mull over the evening's revelations and start the rotating cycle of denial he knows will have surfaced by dawn.

It's no real hardship sneaking out at 2AM, or at least not to Jamie. It's a regular occurrence these days what with fighting parents and large piles of school work, both of them screaming at him in their own inconsiderate ways. He's become a confident expert when it comes to jimmying the basement window and slipping past the bright motion sensor lights in the back yard. The only trouble he has is vaulting the picket fence, a loose tear in his jeans catching on the splintered wood. A spluttered curse and a lot of careful tugging soon remedies the situation however and quicker than you can say sayonara Jamie's walking briskly into the dappled moonlight.
Digging his hands into the deep pockets of his jumper he makes his way out of the familiarity of the neighbourhood he was born and raised in, pausing only to light a cigarette he knows he shouldn't be smoking, before choosing his favourite route to the bus station. He's in no hurry, after all he's not actually planning on catching a coach, so he walks at his own pace, dragging in nicotine with every step and wincing with memories as he flicks away ash. Yes, even in the quiet haunts of suburbia the dream still surfaces.
Jamie frowns, a gesture meant only for himself, as he smokes and ponders and walks ever onwards. That dream was something entirely new to him and it had scared him dreadfully. And the reason it scared him was so ridiculous he could've kicked himself as he woke in that clammy terror. It had scared him because in all undeniable truth, it hadn't been a nightmare. Instead it had been a gorgeous, sensuous, ravagement of the mind and he'd felt glorious with euphoria throughout. And all Jamie can think about is how hateful this makes him feel now, as he remembers the tainted happiness the dream had filled him with before his subconscious had kicked him, put on the brakes and shrieked that it was wrong. Wrong.
The night is crisp and the stars shine tentatively through the smog and stench of the polluted air. He hates that he has never seen the moon and the universe as it was meant to be seen, all because some jackass decided to build a power plant on the outskirts of his home town. It makes him jealous of everyone and everything outside the close knit bubble that is his neighbourhood. He feels heavy suddenly.
He throws away the spent remnants of his cigarette and digs his mobile out from the back pocket of his jeans. He stops under the harsh glare of a shop sign telling him to Come On In and spends a solitary moment pressing keys lightly, a message appearing slowly upon the pale blue screen. He can usually text quite quickly but now his thumb joints feel seized up and stiff. He won't admit to himself that the message he wants to send may ruin him, not even when the message is sent out into the big wide open of the night to find its recipient. He feels strangely hollow and sick once it's gone.
When he reaches the bus station and sits heavily on a bench beneath the halo of the flickering company logo he isn't tired or spent or even remotely aware of anything he's said or done that day, or seen and felt at the hands of that life affirming dream. All he can properly register are the images flashing through his brain like a revolving film reel, screen shot after screen shot of practically everything he's petrified of seeing and accepting.
He's seeing himself on a bed with another boy. It's a room he doesn't recognise and a time he can't pinpoint, he just understands that this is the present state of affairs. The lights are dim, the scent in the air is musky and heavy and heated and wet. He feels consumed by it, drowning in it in fact, but he can't get away from or ignore it. He finds he doesn't want to ignore it. He's naked. He's painfully aware that the other boy is too. And yet they smile. He's never smiled at anyone in the way he smiles right now. They do things together that make him blush from the intimacy and chew on his bottom lip, biting his tongue to quiet a swelling mixture of indignation and delight. There's so much confliction here he can't rip the facts apart though he craves it deeply. He wants to know where this came from and why it's happening now of all times. He's feeling butterflies the size of elephants in his abdomen and the other boy's face is flushed and there is panting suddenly.
It's surreal.
He's so utterly overcome by these crystal clear memories that he doesn't notice that someone is standing over him, hands on hips, hair messy and tousled, brows raised expectantly above very tired looking eyes. And yet Jamie has recently seen those eyes widened in something similar to arousal. The contrast is literally startling to behold. Jamie wonders inwardly whether the dream showed those eyes at their best.
“You do know what time it is don't you?” The newcomer says loftily, landing on the bench making it creak beneath their combined weight. “What the hell, Jamie?”
“Sorry.”
Jamie doesn't elaborate for what feels like hours. He can't explain why he sent the text to this boy beside him, why he thought he had to shout about the dream. Maybe he's hoping something miraculous will happen and the dream will disappear. Maybe he just wanted to sit closely next to his friend, to have their knees and thighs touch innocently one last time before he breaks everything between them forever.
When he sees the boy's hand come to rest on his shoulder, sees the upshot of concern, he decides now to wet his lips and speak what he hates to hear.
“I had a dream about you tonight.”