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Gravel spat against Sam’s boots. His lungs burned, the heavy canvas sack slapping against his thigh with every stride. Ahead of him, Sid vaulted the dry-stone wall, a blur of patched trousers and scuffed knees. Sam threw a glance over his shoulder. At the far end of the lane, Mr. Walker was a shrinking silhouette against the afternoon glare, waving a shovel and bellowing colourful threats.
Sid jerked his chin toward a corrugated iron shed sagging at the edge of the pasture. Sam scrambled over the wall, scraping the heel of his palm on the rough rock.
Inside, the shed smelled of motor grease and brittle, sun-baked straw. Sam dropped the sack before sitting down heavily in the straw. It thudded against the dirt floor, spilling half a dozen bright red apples. Sid snatched one, rubbed the skin vigorously against his trousers until it was shiny, and took a bite that cracked loud in the stifling quiet. He offered the half-eaten fruit. Sam took it, letting the sharp juice cut through the dust coating his throat.
“Making a ruddy fuss over nothing,” Sid panted, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Branch was hanging clean over the lane. Finders keepers.”
Sam passed the apple back with a smile. “We were standing in his orchard, Sid.”
“Details.” Sid grinned, teeth flashing white in the gloom. “Like Robin Hood, aren't we? Nicking from the rich.”
“Walker’s a market gardener, not the bloody Sheriff of Nottingham.” Sam picked a piece of straw from his collar. His knee jogged up and down, drumming a frantic, uncontrollable rhythm against the dirt.
Sid chewed loudly, swallowed, and picked at a scab on his thumb. “Saw your brother Pete stepping out with that Irene girl last week.”
Sam’s knee stilled for a second. “Yeah.”
“From over by the churchyard. Snotty piece of work.” Sid pulled a face. “Don’t know why he bothers. Slipping her the tongue in front of the post office.”
Sam snorted. “Mrs. Clam caught ‘em you know. Chased them off with her sweeping brush. Fixes my mood right up, thinking about that.” He stared at a rusted tractor cog half-buried in the dirt. “Pete reckons he’s finally found a girl with a brain. Just means he thinks the rest of us are thick.”
Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light piercing the rusted roof. Sam rubbed the back of his neck. The damp wool of his jumper suddenly felt unbearable. “Right. Walker’s gone in for his tea by now. I’m pushing off.”
He stood. Sid didn't move.
“You ever snogged anyone?” Sid asked the floor.
Sam froze, halfway to standing. The question dropped between them, heavy and out of place in the grease-stained shed. “What?”
Sid picked at the seam of his trousers. “Only I thought…” He stopped, swallowed, and pushed himself up, stepping directly into Sam’s space. Up close, Sid smelled of stale sweat, bruised apples, and earth.
“You’ve got…” Sid’s voice dropped. He tapped his own mouth. “Summat there.”
Sam raised a hand to wipe it. Sid caught his wrist. The younger boy's grip was hot, his fingernails grimy. Before Sam could pull his arm away, Sid leaned up. A wet, rough tongue swiped the corner of Sam's mouth.
Sam’s breath hitched. A jolt cracked down his spine, snapping his nerves taut. The shed, the heat, the itch of his jumper, it all vanished. There was just the intense, shocking heat where Sid had touched him, and a sudden, hollow dropping sensation in his gut. The shock didn't spark disgust. It buzzed like an electric, terrifying curiosity. Not for Sid, Sid was just Sid, his old friend from his street, but for the sheer, staggering possibility of the act itself. A boy. Rough hands. The sharp scent of sweat instead of floral perfume.
His thoughts muddled, caught between a baffling thrill and total bewilderment. But pride pricked at him; he was nearly sixteen, and he wasn't about to stand there gawping while the younger boy took the lead.
Sam grabbed Sid’s jaw. His fingers dug into the soft skin beneath the boy's cheekbones, callouses scraping. He leaned down and pressed his mouth hard against Sid’s. It was a clumsy, bruising collision of teeth and chapped lips, tasting of copper and sharp apple juice.
Sam broke away, his chest heaving. He snatched the canvas sack off the dirt and shoved it hard into Sid’s chest. The younger boy stumbled back a step, catching the canvas.
“Take the lot,” Sam ordered. His voice sounded thin, reedy. His face burned like he’d stood too close to a furnace grate. He turned his back, kicked the tin door open, and marched out into the blinding glare.
Behind him, boots crunched on the gravel as Sid followed, whistling a jagged, off-key tune.