Multiple variations on what a laugh means. The nuances and motivations behind and inside an expression that's universal to humans.

There are only two types of crying.

Think what you want. I don't know you, or where you're from, but where we're from, there's two kinds of tears.

There's the tears that come for someone else. Tears you cry because you're watching something bad happen to somebody you love, or something coming to an end. Those tears come quickly. They start right in the moment usually a goodbye, for a while or forever and they belong to whoever's leaving. They are the feeling that colours the picture that person gets to take with them.

That's one kind.

The other kind are the ones that come for yourself.

They take longer.

Tears that come when a moment cracks the dam of you, who you are, the wall that you've built and kept up since you can remember and when that wall cracks, and the pressure's released, the tears that come carry everything. Every mistake. Every promise. Every lie. Every cold shoulder. Every bite. Every tiny death that you've ever felt floods out, over you. Through you.

The tidal wave crashes and the edges blur as you fall to the floor, feeling the power of what you've started and can't control.

And when they're done, those tears, when you come up for air, your clothes sodden, and the waves have soaked into the floor and the walls and all the rubble they've left, you slowly lift your head, and the whole world is different.

INT. KITCHEN NIGHT Bloodied water snakes down a silver plughole.

We're in our kitchen.

The kettle's boiling. I'm holding frozen peas against my face. My ears are ringing. My bottom lip's split. My jaw aches, throat scratched from crying. The muscles in my chest and stomach and arms all tender, but I feel better. I feel real.

Marc's sitting at the table, dabbing his left cheek with a damp tea towel. His eye socket's already swollen.

I look at him. He smiles.

"Lucky shot."

I smile back.

"Yeah. Course."

And we sit with our teas. The hot liquid stings my lip, but everything's warm. Everything's messed up, but everything makes sense at the same time. A definite mess.

I just fought Marc Henry. I just held my own with my big brother.

"You should call her." He nods as he sips.

I shake my head. "I can't."

"Fair enough. Give her a bit of time then. That's what people always need." I watch him picture Donna. "I hope."

I see Leia's face. Her disappointment.

My mind zooms out to her standing on the doorstep, Michelle behind her. Other faces too. The light behind them. Zoom out further, to Jono cradling Simeon while Max sits to the side holding his face. Zoom out to the street. The back of me. Bane. Thick shoulders heaving as I walk off.

The fire in my gut.

"Ask me," Marc says, and I'm back in our kitchen.

"Ask you what?"

"Whatever question you keep trying to swallow."

"Were you trying to kill him?"

Close-up.

Tendons flex under the skin of raw knuckles.

Marc stares across at the sink for what feels like a long time before he speaks.

"When I was about fourteen, he used to come over to the football pitches when we were playing, trying to sell us weed and that. Nothing hardcore. He had this done-up white Golf. Used to rev the engine when he showed up." Marc shakes his head at the memory. "He starts offering us money to do stuff, like dares, he says, throw this brick through so and so's window, slash this guy's tyres, or whatever. We were bored and it was dough, so we just did it, no biggy. All through till we left school, people were scared of us and I suppose we liked it.

"He used to make little digs, all the time, take the piss out of us, talking himself up, making sure we always thought he was the man. A few of the others bought it, but me and Jay always just nodded along.

"Then he started on the shops. Getting us to nick proper stuff. We knew it was stupid, but " he shrugs "lot of stuff's stupid, eh?" He sips his tea. "That's when it got a bit more serious, and that's when Dad found out."

He looks at me. He knows I remember.

"That's when I stopped running with him, and he didn't like it. Used to try and embarrass me, threaten me in front of people, say he was gonna do stuff. He never did, cos he knew I could kick the shit out of him and he'd have to live that down, big Craig Miller, battered by a kid four years younger. So he starts sniffing round Donna, following her home and that. I warn him off, and we have this proper row outside The Goose, it was just after my eighteenth, I remember it clear as anything. He pulled a knife. Prick. Who pulls a knife?"

I shrug and avoid his eyes, picturing Tommy standing with his torn top, holding the knife out.

"A chicken who can't fight, that's who. So I told him. In front of all his little henchmen, that if he went near Donna again, I'd kill him, giving it the big one myself, like. And that's when he says I'd better watch it, that my family'd better watch it."

I've never heard him talk about this. I watch his jaw tensing, his eyes darting from his hands to the sink, to the floor. Everywhere but me.

"I've thought about it so much, Lukey." He's fighting tears. "He was all talk. He was always all talk. I never thought ..."

Then he makes this sound. It's like wood cracking. Like a heavy chair scraping against a hard floor. And I want to help, to make this better, but the words just walk out of my mouth.

"He's back," I say.

Marc wipes his face with his hand and stares at his mug. Why did I say that? Why did I have to make it worse? Why isn't he reacting?

"Did you hear me, Marc?"

He looks at me and it's like a slap in my face. He already knows.

I go to get up. "No, Lukey, stop." His arms are out towards me.

"Are you kidding me, Marc? You knew?"

"It's all right. Don't worry. Nothing's gonna happen."

I'm up now. Looking down at him. "What are you talking about? It's Craig Miller!"

"Easy," he says. "It's fine. I've spoken to him."

"You what?!"

My head's spinning again. Craig's crooked face.

"Sit down, Luke. It's all good."

I sit, and my head falls into my hands.

"Nothing's gonna happen," Marc says. "It's all the past. Time to move on."

I look at him and he looks like he believes what he's saying. Like it's not for my benefit and I don't get it. Craig Miller.

"It's different now, Lukey. I'm different."

He smiles. "New chapter. I'm all about the food now. Making a go of it. Something proper."

"With Donna?"

He shrugs, and skates his fingertip round the lip of his mug. "If she'll have me, yeah."

"He told me to say hi."

Marc sits bolt upright. "He came to you?"

And the anger's right back in his eyes.

I shake my head. "No. Kind of. He passed by in a car."

"Where?" And the bite in his voice is scary. I can't tell him everything.

"Near town. I was walking back. It was last week."

"Why didn't you tell me?" And then he clocks what he said and what we've just been talking about and he slumps back into his chair.

"What's he want, Marc?"

"You don't have to worry. Not about him. He's just trying to save face, let us know he's not scared. He's not gonna do anything."

"How do you know?" I say, leaning on my elbows.

Then Marc runs his fingers over his knuckles and smiles a smile that he stole from Dad.

"Because it'd be a mistake."

Boy stares out of moving bus window, his head against the glass Boy sits in back corner seat of moving bus next to old lady, trying not to look at her as she just stares up at the side of his face, like she's trying to read his story.

INT. CLASSROOM DAY YOUNG MAN sits drawing concentric circles on lined paper. Lost in thought.

I'm in comms. Louise asked everyone to come up with one law they would implement if they were in charge of the country. I stare at my doodle, trying not to look over at Max.

I had a quick glance as we came in and that felt awkward enough. What am I gonna say to him? What am I gonna say to Simeon in film later? To Leia? Relax. What's done is done.

My eyes hit Max's just as he looks up. His face isn't marked. Tommy must've just popped his nose, not broken it. I make myself hold his gaze, give him the chance to be in charge, cut me a look, anything. He just stares back blankly. I try and say sorry with my eyes. Then the lesson ends.

I've rehearsed different versions of what I'll say to her. But she probably doesn't even want to see me. Let alone talk to me.

Is that what you are?

Her text is tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

I've decided the worst thing I can do is say sorry. An apology is pointless. Apologies are for when you forget something. Or bump into somebody. Apologies are for accidents. You can't apologise for something you chose to do. That's like apologising for being you.

I can say I wish I hadn't done it. That's different. I wish I hadn't done it, Leia. I wish I hadn't done any of it.

Yeah, cos that's not pointless.

She doesn't come to film.

Neither does Simeon. The empty seats next to me and Jono scream 'guilt' the whole lesson. I try and make eye contact with Jono a couple of times, but he's having none of it. Megan doesn't acknowledge me either.

We're supposed to share our opening scenes with everyone. Read them out to see how they feel. How am I gonna do that? How am I gonna read out a scene about a guy beating the crap out of someone after what I did?

Noah's working his way round the horseshoe from my left. I saw him notice my face. The fading marks from Marc's fist still colouring my cheek. Maybe he's put two and two together, the empty seats, people missing, me bruised.

Where is she?

Maybe they're together. Maybe Leia's round at Simeon's house right now, sitting on his big sofa. No. He pushed her. He called her ...

But I bet he's apologised and she's let him off. And now they're watching a film. Something old. And as it plays it all feels familiar to them, and before long they're sitting closer, her leaning against his shoulder, his arm round her, just for comfort, nothing said out loud, but both of them feeling the warmth of their own memories of when they were together. That's what's happening. Right now.

"I gotta go toilet."

I'm standing up. The boy reading out his scene stops. Everyone looks at me. Megan's giving me evils.

"Sorry. I feel a bit sick. I better go."

I start packing my stuff.

"Do you need that?" says Noah.

"What?" I actually do feel queasy.

"Your stuff. Do you need to take it to the toilet?"

I'm blushing, but still packing. "Dunno how long I'll be. Feels pretty bad." And I leave, feeling every eye in the room watching me go.