by C F White
“No tea bags,” Bradley gloated. “That, there, is made with leaves.” He cocked his head. “As I know your aversion to tea bagging.”
Mark shot the Aussie a narrowed glare and Bradley chuckled. Ignoring the cheeky wink, Mark took a sip and, as he swallowed, his whole body relaxed from its tense clench. He would have thought that after what he had just done in the back kitchen all those good endorphins would have been released and he’d be smiling for weeks. But as soon as he had ventured out into the seating area, the old Mark had come back to haunt him and the realisation of how dreadful uncomfortable the whole scenario was burst through his every orifice.
The tea was a welcome relief for his ailing body and mushed-up mind.
“It’s very good,” Mark finally agreed and downed more of the impeccable beverage.
Bradley took up a seat opposite him and sat back, arms folded. He inspected Mark with those sparkling eyes and proceeded to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Mark wrapped his trembling hands around the mug.
“So, you were just flirting with me last week?” Bradley said. “Trying to get into my pants, eh? Tut tut, Mark.”
Mark narrowed his eyes. Flirting? He was pretty sure flirting wasn’t something he knew how to do.
“You told me my tea was perfect last week,” Bradley reminded him and waggled a finger across the table. “Now you’ve downgraded that to ‘very good’. You think now you’ve got me, you don’t have to be so complimentary?”
“I’d hardly say I’ve got you.”
The look Bradley shot him across the table made Mark realise that was a rather flippant statement, so he thought best to back it up, add some more, like his mouth always did before his brain kicked in.
“What I mean to say is, that getting you would mean that I get to keep you. Which sounds a lot like a purchase of some description. And I haven’t paid for the tea, either.” He held up the cup in demonstration. “I am able to pay for the tea, of course. It is, like I say, a rather good cup and one I would be more than happy to offer monetary gratitude for.”
He took another gulp from the mug and shut his eyes. On opening them he noticed Bradley was waiting for more. Or perhaps in some sort of trance or other.
“Not that I wouldn’t offer a monetary value to you.” Mark shook his head with the absurdity of what had just tumbled forth from his mouth. “Sorry, erase that.”
Bradley smirked.
Mark sipped his tea. “What I mean to say is that I’ve had you.” He confirmed that with a firm nod. “I think. Or if the past hour was simply a dream, then I do apologise and I’ll just drink this up and get on home.”
“Have you had many boyfriends, Mark?” Bradley folded his arms across his rock-hard chest that was unfortunately now covered by a vest top. The question was merely stated, no inflections or raising of eyebrows. Like he was just interested in Mark’s previous encounters. None of them had been on a counter of course, just Bradley. Oh, God, I just fucked Bradley on Macy’s kitchen counters!
Mark fixated on staring at his latest conquest in awe. That top was so delectably tight that Mark could make out the contours of taut muscles, especially when Bradley clamped his arms together and curled his fingers around the bulging biceps. Mark had to bite his tongue, which he should have done some time back. Or at least had it removed along with his tonsils when he was a teenager. A bout of tonsillitis would actually have been a welcome condition right about then as he saw the look of intrigue dancing across the young man opposite’s beautiful face.
“That’s a rather personal question.” Mark slurped the next mouthful of tea. Rather uncouth, he was aware, but his trembling lips and flapping tongue couldn’t handle table manners right then.
“Are you saying we aren’t at that stage in our relationship yet to learn such things of each other?” Bradley inquired with a tilt of his head. “Because, I’d say we’ve moved up a notch or two, no?”
He winked and Mark coughed. Loudly. He was rather perturbed he’d finished the tea and there was no bag at the bottom to splat onto his face and move the conversation along to something far less embarrassing. Damn the Aussie and his now decent teamaking ability. Slamming the cup on the surface, Mark stroked a hand through his hair which he was sure had remnants of Better than Butter greased through it and was in danger of looking like those grunge kids who skated along the seafront and who refused to shampoo, claiming that the products were against nature.
“You can give a ballpark figure, if you like?” Bradley offered.
“Ha!” Mark hacked out. “It would be rather an empty ballpark. Not even in the realms of Marsby FC’s weekly turnout.”
“They get many?”
“Wouldn’t know, never been, but this isn’t a particularly large town and, from my flick through of the local weekly rag, I believe Marsby has a habit of losing.”
“Fair dos.” Bradley leaned forward, his elbows perched on the table top. “A handful then?”
“Why are you so blinking interested?” Mark spat. “Did I do it wrong?”
Bradley chuckled and fiddled with the paper sugars in their porcelain pot. “No.” He smiled, wistfully. “Far from wrong. Although, margarine? That’s ingenious.”
“How many boyfriends have you had?” Defusing the question was infantile, sure. But he was losing. And he had never been opposed to cheating. At games, that was. Not relationships.
His heart leapt out a painful spasm of memories and he had to rub it better over his chest.
“Three.” Bradley didn’t falter his quickfire reply. He stopped his idle fingering of the condiments packets and sat back, rubbing a hand over his stomach. “Had a girlfriend at school once, too. But I was thirteen then so I don’t really count her. And we only kissed.”
“I see.” Mark nodded. “I, unfortunately, went to an all-boys’ school. No opportunity for girls there.”
“No,” Bradley confirmed with a glint in his eye. “Just lots and lots and lots of boys.”
Mark snorted and not particularly lightheartedly either. He ended up hiccupping and Bradley leaned back in his chair to watch the pitiful demise with an opposing grin.
“You know, Mark,” he said, “I’m getting the feeling you have something to hide.”
“Not at all,” Mark lied with a firm shake of his head. “Hid the sausage today and that’s about the extent of my hide-and-seek abilities.”
Bradley burst out a laugh and Mark smiled at the pleasurable release. Bradley was infectious when he laughed and Mark was relieved that for once it hadn’t been caused by his misfortune. Well, it was, but indirectly so that was a lot easier to take on the chin.
“All right.” Bradley inhaled a deep breath, regaining his composure and evidently not waning in his need to continue the inquisition. “Now you tell me.”
The tinkle of the bell above the shop door was a welcome saviour. Now Mark knew where that statement might have originated from. Because he’d never been saved by the school bell. But as he turned his head toward the incoming, consisting of two shit-eating grins on Damian and Macy’s smug mugs, Mark would have preferred to explain his tragic life-slash-love story rather than have to make pleasantries with those two.
“Good evening, Mark.” Damian greeted him with a wink and pulled out one of the chairs next to him. He thrust out an eager hand to Bradley. “Don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Brad,” Bradley offered and shook Damian’s hand.
Damian clung on to it like a cat to a hanging branch, searing his claws in to Mark’s man. Bradley attempted to slide his hand away, causing a tug of war over the square table.
“Damian,” Mark warned through gritted teeth.
“Possessive now are we, Marky Mark?” Damien released his grip and Bradley fell back in his seat. Damian whistled, bit his bottom lip and mouthed a wow over his shoulder. That wasn’t the end to his dramatic performance—he flicked out a napkin from the holder and proceeded to fan himself with it.
Mark kicked him under the tab
le.
“We were worried, Mark.” Macy scraped out the chair beside Bradley and gave an all-knowing smile to her baby cousin.
I really must stop referring to Bradley as a baby cousin.
Bradley grinned and that pretty much summed up all in the lopsided curvature of his lips exactly why Mark hadn’t made it back home yet.
“I am thirty-nine!” Mark declared. “Quite capable of getting around by myself. Certainly in the middle of the day.”
“See, you say that as if it’s true.” Damian waggled a finger so close to Mark’s nose he had to bat it away. “Remember that time you got lost on your stroll along the coastal road?”
Mark sighed. “I did not get lost. I merely took a wrong turn.”
“And ended up in the middle of Dover docks about to board a freight ferry to France.” Damian chuckled. “They nearly locked you up as they thought you were a refugee.” He squealed and clutched his stomach. “Until they remembered that refugees rarely try to get out of Britain.”
The anecdote wasn’t that funny, so Damian’s over-the-top cackling was merely a way to get some attention on him. His fluttering eyelashes wafted a breeze through Bradley’s blond tousled locks and Mark glared at him, then removed his stare to land it on Bradley. Bradley smiled back. He hadn’t even given a second glance to Damian. It made Mark a tad uncomfortable, but his stomach liked to indulge him with its warm and fuzzies on this occasion.
“I don’t see it.” Bradley cocked his head.
“See what?” Mark asked.
Bradley waggled a finger between Damian and Mark. “You two.”
He still didn’t produce a damn wrinkle with his furrowing brow and Mark wondered which brand of cream the man used as he’d quite like to buy the stuff in bulk. Until he recalled Bradley’s actual age and swallowed down the returning anxiety overload. I really am a cradle snatcher!
Damian gasped, snapping Mark out of his brief reverie. “Did Mark tell you about our little attempt at being more than just good friends?”
“I would delete the word good, there,” Mark retorted with a sullen grump. “And, no, I hadn’t. It’s not something I boast about.”
Damian scowled over his shoulder, but soon whipped back around to offer a delightful smile to address the Aussie instead. Mark didn’t blame him. Bradley was much better to look at.
“I guessed.” Bradley shrugged. “So that’s at least one then, Mark?”
“Damian was never a boyfriend. Not really.” Would that be misinterpreted? Probably.
“No, we weren’t.” Damian cupped his chin in his palm, tapping his fingers on his cheek as he gazed at Bradley. “When we first met, we were both hopeless romantics suffering years of torment at being in love with men we couldn’t have and shouldn’t want.” Damian pointed at Mark. “I told him to just get over it. Move on. We tried, and, well, it was like kissing my brother.” He shuddered. “We decided it would be better to just pine over others and be each other’s fall-back if we weren’t settled by forty.” He slapped a hand on Mark’s thigh. “Which isn’t far off, old fellow!”
Mark’s face drained of any colour as Bradley widened his eyes.
“Me.” Damian, oblivious to any unrest, splayed his hand across his chest. “I love Tom Hardy. And the man simply refuses to answer any of my fan mail. But he’s got one year left before I forget him and become Mark Johnson’s bottom. Because that was also the deal, or Mark wasn’t having any of it.”
“And Mark?” Bradley shuffled forward. “Who does he love?”
Mark opened his mouth. Nothing came out except Damian’s voice.
“Oh, Mark, here.” Damian waved a hand to indicate that he was aware Mark was still sitting there, although his flapping lips seemed evidence to the contrary. “He just still pines, bless his cockles.”
Bradley arched that one damn eyebrow that was probably ever so much fitter than its comrade across the bridge with all its recent lone workouts. Mark decided now was perhaps time to offer some information, even if it wasn’t strictly truthful. But before he had the chance to open his mouth, Damian leaned in toward Bradley and lowered his voice.
“I gave Mark all my best moves, but no matter what I did I couldn’t snap him from his pining. You’d think ten years was enough—"
“I do not pine, Damian!” Mark nearly toppled out of his seat to yell that.
“No?” Damian thrust his whole body around in the chair. “It’s all you ever do. It’s all you ever did! It’s why that kiss was so bloody deplorable! It was like wading my tongue in a pit of despair mixed with self-loathing and despicable depression. And even when we tried a little beneath-clothing fumbling, it was still riddled with despondency.”
“Maybe it was your incessant chatter?” Mark snapped, his blood boiling. God, is that what Bradley tasted too? My years and years of torment? “How can one even slip their tongue in you when you keep flapping your lips?”
“Ooooo.” Damian sashayed his hips in retaliation. “I do apologise that I couldn’t match up to your Mr George, blinking perfect, Carroway!”
Mark glared at Damian. Damian, in turn, glared back. Mark didn’t take his eyes off Damian. He couldn’t. He could feel Bradley’s gaze on him and he wanted nothing more right then than the ground to open up and swallow him.
Macy, bless her mismatched cottons, remained quiet but took the opportune moment to stand and smile.
“Perhaps we could all use a cup of tea?” she suggested.
“Who’s George Carroway?” Bradley asked.
Mark didn’t respond. He had no idea how to summarise the complexity of the answer to what Bradley assumed was an acceptable question. Mark had spent a long time avoiding having to talk about it. Having to deal with it. Having to come to terms with what George had done to him. He’d accepted. He’d moved on…if solitarily.
Macy skulked off to the kitchen with nothing more than a tip-tap of purple shoes and Damian sucked in a breath that he didn’t seem to be exhaling at any given moment, darting his worried gaze from Bradley to him. Mark should say something. Anything. Whatever he said would be so much better than what Damian might suddenly decide to utter should he ever want to breathe out again.
Just when things were getting a trite awkward, with no one speaking and Bradley content to keep his eyebrows having their daily thirty minutes of isometric exercise, Macy’s loud gasp bellowed out to the seating area. Mark widened his eyes at Bradley, realisation striking of how they had left things back there. It would be Mark’s luck right then that the Health and Safety inspectors would tinkle that bell. Still, least he’d be saved by it.
“Right, well, that’ll be my cue to, er…” Mark stood.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Bradley leaped from his chair, scooted around the table to push him back down to the seat. “I’m not dealing with that on my own.”
“It was lovely knowing you.” Mark thrust up into Bradley’s palms, but got no farther than a millimetre off the seat.
It’s all well and good when the sight gets you off, but when you need to make a bolt for it, a well gym-honed muscular system can be such a hindrance.
“What’s going on?” Damian asked, narrowing his eyes.
He bundled out of his seat and tottered off into the back kitchen, leaving Mark alone with Bradley. He still hadn’t taken his hands away from Mark’s shoulders, grounding him or, more like, looming over him in a menacing shadow.
Mark offered one of the best and sweetest smiles he had ever produced in his life. He even fluttered his eyelashes, Damian-style, to soften the blow.
Bradley didn’t falter his threatening stance, but did loosen the fingers he had digging into Mark’s collarbone somewhat and Mark felt a renewed sense of triumph, going a little way to prove that beauty could win over the beast. Not that Mark would consider himself the beauty in this scenario, but the sentiment was there.
“You two are clearing that up!” Macy stomped out of the kitchen, ripped her straw bag from the back of her chair and gave Mark a stern eyeful,
Yvonne-style.
Damian teetered out behind, hands over his mouth, chuckling. “Nice work, Marky Mark. Nice work, indeed!”
Macy yanked open the door, making the bell sound more like the shrill of an alarm as it slapped back and forth on its hook at double time. She shot an embittered look over her shoulder that Mark decided was for Bradley. At least, Mark allowed him to be the recipient of it by glancing down into his empty cup.
Once Damian had vacated the building, Macy attempted to slam a door that was lined in foam pads to prevent such an abhorrence, gave up and growled as she stomped out of sight.
Mark glanced up to Bradley with a shrug.
“Best be sorting that out, then, shall we?”
“Who’s George Carroway and why does he deserve your continued pining?”
If Mark didn’t know any better, he would say the look in Bradley’s eyes bore some resemblance to a little-known emotion called jealousy. It couldn’t be, though? Could it? Not if Bradley knew the truth. Which he doesn’t.
Taking a deep breath, Mark stood, bit down his reserved nature and leaned in to kiss Bradley. Whilst he had hoped that would deter the Aussie from asking any more pressing questions, he soon realised his lips wouldn’t be as effective as the memory wipe used in one of his favourite Star Trek episodes.
“The answer to your previous question is one.” Mark scooted around Bradley’s bulky frame and ventured over to the counter. “His name was George Carroway. Mostly known as Mr Carroway in these parts.”
