by Zakarrie C
“Gabriel, you don’t need—”
“I know. I’m not…which is a Christmas bonus whichever way you look at it.” The beam that accompanied this was somehow as warming as a hot toddy on a winter’s night. It felt genuine; the smile of a friend Gabriel could never be now. Dylan’s opportunity to ever become that had been obliterated. Blown in a back alley, no less. A loss he regretted the instant he recognized that fact.
Gabriel was not only the most…boundless person Dylan had ever met, he was a bloody good actor. There had been a moment—no, much longer, when he’d believed—believed? Had been convinced Gabriel was…enjoying his job.
When did I get it so wrong? Then? Or now? That was a no bloody brainer. He wasn’t deranged—and thus deluded—now. Dylan had clearly happened upon the most mannerly and gifted thespian rent boy psychologist in bloody London. This situation had assumed farcical levels of ludicrous.
“Best bonus I’ll ever get, that’s for sure,” Gabriel added with a chuckle. “’Twas looking a mite bleak before today. Now I have a tree and thee. What more could I wish for?”
“Home, hearth, family, wealth…a lover?” Dylan shrugged, staring down at his feet, too abashed by Gabriel’s practised reply to meet those eyes now.
“I have the first three, sort of. ’Nuff to get by and keep the wolves off my back is plenty…and the latter? I’m hoping for a Christmas miracle.”
What does that mean? Was Gabriel hoping to win the heart of a long yearned for lover? If his expression was even a fraction as wistful as his so-soft words, then…then what? When Dylan lifted his head to scour Gabriel’s eyes for their secrets, it was worse. The longing reflected in those liquid pools of midnight made his breath catch in his throat. Fuck.
“I…hope it transpires.” Dylan managed to mutter. Despite drowning.
“Thank you, but ’tis impossible,” Gabriel sighed, stealing his gaze away to stare straight ahead. He didn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular…but at something only he could see. Just as he danced to music only he had the privilege to hear. “Ah well, no matter, being impossible is my very best thing, or so I’m told. So, I might as well do m’best to believe it into being.”
It was…impossible to disagree with that assessment.
“Will you be spending Christmas alone…if it doesn’t work out?” Dylan asked, not even sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Yeah, but not because I must. I could go and visit my parents—they want me to—but…I don’t fancy spending Christmas away from Blighty. ’Tis just not the same. I’ve spent more than ’nuff of them far from home when I had no choice. Now that I do, I’m loathe to leave London.”
“You spent most of your childhood abroad?” Dylan prompted, hoping Gabriel would continue, eager to unravel the magic that made up this man who had…bewitched him.
“A fair chunk. Not all of it, cos we moved about a lot…followed my dad and set up ‘home’ wherever he was based.”
“He’s in The Forces?”
“Yup. Military brat, that’s me. How about you, Mr Dylan? Are you spending Christmas with your folks?
“I’ll go and see my mum. Probably on Boxing Day, but it’s not exactly what you might call…traditional. More dope-cake than Dickens,” Dylan acknowledged with a shrug. “I’d rather not have a Hippy Christmas, to be honest, so I’ll probably wind up eating a pre-cooked turkey drumstick and watching fucking Frozen.”
“No! You can’t do that! ’Twould be tragic.” Those obsidian orbs flared wider with horror. A feat so improbable, Dylan momentarily forgot why they might have done so. A blessing in disguise indeed…and about the only reason he didn’t dare hope something beyond stupid before Gabriel added; “Have they snaffled The Snowman? Is he not on Channel 4 this year?”
Chapter Thirteen
Gabriel
“How about you, Mr Dylan? Are you spending Christmas with your folks?” Gabriel attempted to keep his tone that of polite parler, despite the fact he could scarce contain his glee that Dylan had asked about his own, and thus afforded Gabriel the chance to find out what he wanted to know (much, much more than he should). Especially on accounts of being a rent boy, an’ all. As delicious as having a dilly-dally in Dylan’s dark dreams was, Gabriel’s new role was going to get very old, very fast, about a heartbeat after he’d played his part in bringing them to fruition. A thought about as full of festive cheer as a funeral, so he was a smidge more than relieved when Dylan scythed through his maudlin musings like a blade through brandy butter.
“I’ll go and see my mum, at some point. Probably Boxing Day, but it’s not exactly what you might call…traditional. More dope-cake than Dickens. I’d rather not have a Hippy Christmas, t’be honest.” Dylan had a bash at a smile that could only really be considered one, if prefixed by ‘regretful’. They could scarce have had a more chalk ‘n’ cheese childhoods in parental terms. Dylan had prob’ly been taught to roll a spliff while Gabriel was spit-shining his shoes.
Perhaps the ‘getting old’ part of his new profession wasn’t as imminent as Gabe feared. ’Twas starting to seem more akin to a Pengulas on the pressie coveting front—or might—if only he could persuade his favourite punter to book in advance for the festive period. All of it. P’raps I could offer up a rent-one-get-fifty-free Christmas bonus? That should do it. Until boxing day.
Oh, hang on. Gabriel had just opened door twelve, so he’d made a muddle. ’Twas still the sixth, was it not? Fifty!? Until boxing day? Maths could ne’er be considered his very best thing, but blimey, he sure didn’t plan to spend Christmas on Scrooge sustenance levels. Pfft. Rent one, get a hundred free. That was better. Unless o’course, Dylan could be persuaded that dark dreams didn’t disintegrate—nor burst into flames with Vampiric finesse—if subjected to daylight.
Oh, bugger it, Gabriel couldn’t think straight now, not until he had been. Nor rustle up the wherewithal for plotting; not beyond getting Dylan’s boxers off and their contents buried where the sun didn’t shine anyhoo. Not that Gabriel had the foggiest notion how far those dead o’night fantasies might have taken Dylan in the past. Had they remained just that, or had he indulged them before?
If he had, just how far had he ventured? Had they all been wham bam thank you man, as fast as you can, sort of encounters?
If he hadn’t, then Dylan might find that his dark dreamscape was the very definition of be careful what you wish for and swear off dallying with a dilly-boy ever again.
“I’ll probably wind up eating a pre-cooked turkey drumstick and watching fucking Frozen.” Dylan finished up. A sentence that damn near blew Gabriel’s brains, despite his best intentions on the not plotting front.
“No! You can’t do that! ’Twould be tragic.” Blimey…If e’er there was a man who needed saving from himself—whether he wanted to be tossed over Gabriel’s shoulder and carted off to, um, watch a bit o’decent telly or not—Dylan was obviously the odds-on favourite punter for the top spot.
“Have they snaffled The Snowman? Is he not on Channel 4 this year?”
“I dunno, I expect so…it usually is. I haven’t checked the listings, I just heard Mark Kermode mention Frozen in his round-up of the Christmas Day movies.” Dylan shrugged, then one of his sudden grins flashed across his face as he asked; “Have you actually seen it?”
“Why would I do this?” Gabriel wondered.
“Er…in order to form a considered opinion, based upon actually having watched it?”
“Pfft. I cut out the middleman and saved myself the bother. I either love things—or I couldn’t give a stuff—I know that in an instant. I don’t do deciding about it.”
“About everything?” Dylan asked, appearing most perplexed.
Gabriel would be prepared to bet that Dylan spent far too much time perusing his belly button fluff. About everything. Except this…whatever it was. Unless o’course, Dylan had been pondering this seemingly random encounter since puberty, which wouldn’t surprise Gabriel in the slightest. Churchillian wisdom at its
finest, that: ‘I’m just preparing my impromptu remarks.’
“Pretty much…’cept books,” Gabriel admitted. “I’m happy ’nuff to give those a bash, even if the cover is crap. We need to go left here, it’s not far now. Will you have a long way to walk home, when you leave mine?” he added. Casually.
“Fifteen minutes or thereabouts? Not far…” Dylan estimated.
’Twas tricky to say whether this was a good thing or bad. In the short term, it was dreadful, cos Dylan would be less likely to stay the night if he could potter off home so speedily. Longer term? It was wondrous—if such serendipity could e’er come to fruition—sweet dreams are made of this indeed…
“Here y’go…this is me,” Gabriel announced, acutely conscious that his heart was hammering a hundred to the dozen. Crikey, he was going hyperventilate afore he managed to wrangle Dylan out of those strides.
Gabriel…gallantly waved him on first—in a swirling the wine in the glass fashion—his eyes had been starved of that sumptuous sight for far too long. ’Twas all Gabe could do not to fall over his feet at the best of times, so he hadn’t fancied his chances, had he walked home with his head screwed on sideways, peering back over Dylan’s shoulder.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Gabriel grimaced, after unlocking the front door and pushing it open “’Tis the basement flat, so at least I won’t have to fandangle the tree up three flights of stairs. Um, I wasn’t expecting company…so it might be a tad in need of a tidy up.”
“Don’t worry, mine’s probably not much better,” Dylan attempted to reassure him. Gawd bless him. “I couldn’t be arsed to drag it out of bed until about forty minutes before my shift started.”
Oooh. Sadist. The image helpfully supplied by Gabriel’s mind’s eye was not. A jot. Helpful. At all. That aside, he was willing to bet that Dylan’s pronouncement on his tardy housewifery meant; he’d left some tea dregs in a mug by the sink…and p’raps a rogue sock on the floor, if he’d felt particularly slovenly.
Gabriel’s flat looked like the morning after a Pride Party. Or a prospective groom’s Stag do. Same difference. Perhaps he should tell Dylan that the electric meter had run out. Now there was a plan. Two crows with one stone. Sorted.
Chapter Fourteen
Dylan
“Welcome to my humble abode.” Gabriel’s tone seemed to suggest his flat might be exactly that, but Dylan was hardly in a position to cast aspersions; his own made Halls of Residence accommodation appear charming. “’Tis the basement flat,” he explained, beckoning Dylan through the front door.
Gabriel possibly added something about wrangling the tree up three flights of stairs, but Dylan was strung too tight to be sure. He might’ve mentioned a brand of jeans he owned three pairs of, instead. That made sense, when there sure as shit couldn’t be many makes that generous in the leg. This internal drivel was pretty much as impressive as it got for the foreseeable. The enormity of what he was about to do couldn’t be blamed—once he’d made a decision, Dylan never backed down—it was a done deal. It was more that...he didn’t think he’d ever wanted something, someone, this much. This intensely. A fact infinitely more terrifying than what—who—he wanted. He felt no fear; only anticipation so sharp it was uncannily akin to pins and needles. Speaking of which, the tail end of Gabriel’s sentence did pierce Dylan’s fog, but that might have been because he drew to a sudden halt.
“...I wasn’t expecting company, so it might be a tad in need of a tidy up.”
They should print doormats bearing that very legend, to save the necessity of trotting it out when impromptu visitors turned up.
“Don’t worry, mine’s probably not much better,” Dylan responded, automatically. “I couldn’t be arsed to drag it out of bed until about forty minutes before my shift started,” he admitted. Doing just that had proved progressively harder after ‘Advent’ Day.
By the time each shift had dwindled to an end, crushing disappointment had succeeded hope. Each night Dylan had slumped off home, even more miserable than before a human hatstand came clattering into the shop. A feat he wouldn’t have believed possible. Before Gabriel. Even Dylan’s day off had followed much the same pattern, which was beyond pathetic.
As each day drudged by, Gabriel’s very existence started to seem ever more nebulous, as if he were but a wistful daydream gone awry. A fairy tale creature Dylan’s brassed-off brain had conjured to torment him with. He’d clearly watched too many Christmas movies. Gabriel was waaay too tall for an elf. Far too skinny to be Rent-a-Santa…and less likely to have the first name ‘Angel’ than the infinitely more feasible ‘Rumpelstiltskin’.
It seemed to take Gabriel forever to fumble with the keys and find the lock, but when he finally pushed the door open, he stopped short, barely a footstep inside.
“Oh crap. I forgot…I ran out of electric. I didn’t remember to charge the key doodad, cos of the tree malarkey. Fuck. I won’t be able to switch the fairy lights on. Oh, bummer. I forgot that bit…” Forgot what bit? “Hang on, I’ll light a candle. I have plenty of those, at least. Um, you’d be best off waiting by the door…or you might take a tumble.”
Gabriel rustled about, cursing each time he clattered into something. F'fucksakes, how much furniture does he have? It was uncannily akin to one of those movies in which hapless housebreakers crashed around shouting ‘SHHHH!’ at each other in the dark.
On the subject of all things unfathomable; ‘Pfft. I already cut out the middleman and saved myself the bother. I love things—or I couldn’t give a stuff—I know that instantly. I don’t do deciding about it.’
Gabriel’s personal proclivities must be a damn sight different from his ‘professional’ ones; those he assumed while doing his job. How the fuck did someone who reacted in an instinctive instant, manage to shroud himself in indifference for the duration? How could he endure the grey when his inclinations veered so wildly from one extreme to the other? Gabriel’s…bipolar preferences did not apply to them. Dylan could never be more than a grey man in Gabe’s shadow world. As ephemeral as a wisp of smoke. Them? There was no them. F’fucksakes, he’d rented a rent boy, what the hell did Dylan expect? Crap. I haven't even offered yet; am I supposed pay up front, rather than for services rendered?
“Um…Gabriel?”
“Yeah? Hang on, won’t be a mo. Let there be light…and Lo, the candle, it doth flicker. Sorry, ’twas too short notice to rustle up a star in the East.”
Correction. Dylan had found himself a religion-wrangling, thespian rent boy psychologist.
“I would never have pegged bible quotations as being…conducive to your line of w—Fuck!” Dylan broke off when his eyes adjusted to the hazy half-light that had revealed a…sight to behold.
“That’s a bit blunt—but accurate—I doubt they are, but then, you’re not just another client.”
"No! I mean…um, sorry, the fuck was a random…outburst. Er, have you been…ransacked?”
“Ransacked? I dunno. Does it look like anything’s missing?” Gabriel asked, shrugging off his trench coat while scanning the room, as if to ascertain just that. Missing?
“From where…exactly?” Dylan wondered. Aloud. “Unless, you left someone in bed?”
"Hm, good point…” Gabriel noted, utterly unabashed. “No, I didn’t. I never…work from home.”
Thank fuck for that. Dylan was in no position to hold scruples, but…the thought that someone else might have been in Gabriel’s bed—this morning…last night—made his skin crawl. Worse. It made Dylan’s guts twist with something he had no right to feel whatsoever. Most particularly under the circumstances, when Gabriel could have had…half a dozen punters today? More? Christ knows. Dylan should clearly stop thinking. Now. Before he wound up capable of fuck all else, in no fit state to be the seventh…or more.
“Gabriel, may I have a drink?”
“Sorry, course y’can, I’ll just clear you somewhere to sit…” Gabriel apologized, turning back to Dylan, arms overladen with a towering pile of sundry ite
ms he’d scooped from the lone armchair.
“I’d better rinse you a cup…oh, hang on, I have a posh glass for special occasions.” Special occasions? Leave it out, Devereaux. It’s a turn of phrase.
Gabriel wound his way through the carnage until he reached the kitchenette of his bedsit, then tugged open an eye-level cupboard to peer into its pitch-dark depths.
“Is this okay?” he asked, after turning towards Dylan, brandishing a cognac glass. For alcoholic giants.
“Are you sure you don’t have a bigger one?” Dylan grinned, when blinking at the brandy balloon didn’t result in any sign of shrinkage.
“How rude! T’will pick up a bit in a min—”
“Gabriel! F’fucksakes!” Dylan spluttered, infinitely grateful for the somewhat forgiving candlelight that spared his fluorescent flushes.
“Keep your hair on,” Gabriel cackled. “’Twas but a quip—cos it um, won’t—that’s yer lot, I’m afraid,” he added, staring down at his (clearly) straining crotch.
Dylan had never allowed his own gaze to dip beneath Gabriel’s belt before. Had possibly done his damnedest not to let his thoughts linger on that particular part of Gabriel’s person, which hadn’t been as…hard as logic might suggest; having never had cause to encounter a cock (straining or otherwise) under similar circumstances in his goddamn life.
“I…don’t think you…need to worry?” he managed to mumble. Eventually.
“Well, I don't suppose it matters much, ’cept on the visuals front. But I’m starting to think that I could be packing a peanut and ’twould still be…more than you’d encountered before.”
