by Anna Martin
Alex laughed softly and stopped the stroking, instead peppering kisses all over George’s head. “How often does this happen?”
George sighed and tried to roll onto his side. They tussled, George complaining that he was squashing Alex, Alex insisting it was fine. In the end, George stayed where he was, but propped himself up on his hands so he could look at Alex while they talked.
“It gets insane like this every time I submit a new patent. Which, realistically, is about once every eighteen months or so. If I’m doing a new version of an existing model it’s not quite so bad.”
“This is for the football helmet thing, right?”
“Right. It’s all to do with shock absorption and comfort fit. The prototype was well received… and I’m boring myself now. Can we please not talk about this? I swear this fucking helmet has taken over my life.”
“That’s what he said.”
“Har har. Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for putting up with me this week. I know I’ve been a pain in the arse. But I’m really glad I was here instead of back at my old place.”
“I’m glad you’re here too.”
“Tell me about your coursework?”
Alex pressed a quick, gentle kiss to George’s lips. “Let me order dinner first. We can talk while we eat.”
“Okay. I’m going to go have a shower.”
“Good plan. You stink.”
“Oi,” George complained. When they were both on their feet he pounced on Alex and gave him a noogie, then ran away before Alex could reciprocate. George wasn’t too worried. He was bigger than Alex and usually won these little tussles.
As he stripped off and tossed his work clothes into the washing basket, George gave a familiar prayer of thanks for this bathroom. There were other, more important reasons why he’d decided to move, of course, but this bathroom? Compared to the old, mouldy, paint-flaking, taps-rusting bathroom in his old house, this was paradise.
The shower cubicle itself was a dark little nook, meaning no matter the time of day, it was cosy and steamy and almost womb-like in its comfort. George tilted his face up to meet the heavy pour of water and tried to let it wash away some of the stress of the past few days.
At this point, he was beyond exhaustion. He’d caught a second wind somewhere around Thursday midmorning and was still riding that rush of endorphins. The thought of a decent meal tonight, a bottle of wine, and crashing on the sofa with his boyfriend was the most perfect thing he could imagine.
And that’s how you know you’re getting old, George’s subconscious reminded him.
After an unusually long shower, George dressed in a pair of pyjama bottoms and one of his old, ratty uni hoodies.
He looked around the room and frowned. Nothing was immediately wrong with his bedroom, it was just… not right. In a way he couldn’t put his finger on.
“Alex?”
“Food will be about another ten minutes,” Alex said from the living room. “I was about to come down there, thought you might be trying to drown yourself.”
“Do we have a cleaner?”
Alex popped up from the sofa, looking over the back of it with his most innocent who, me? expression.
“No.”
“We so do,” George said, fighting down his amusement. “You little shit.”
“I am exceptionally good at household chores,” Alex said. He kept his face poker straight and sat up a little taller. “I cook and clean and raise the children, George. I’m the perfect housewife. Mary Poppins.”
“Mary Poppins my fucking arse. I can’t believe you. Do you get them to make my lunch too?”
“Of course not.” Alex looked offended now. “I make your lunch for you because I love you.”
“But you don’t love me enough to scrub the toilet.”
Alex seemed to realise he’d been rumbled. “Shit,” he muttered.
George laughed and took his usual corner of the sofa, opening his arm so Alex could snuggle into his side. “It’s fine, princess. I can’t believe I actually thought you did the cleaning, anyway.”
“I do some of it,” Alex protested. “I wash up after we have dinner. I make dinner. And I do laundry.”
“Really? Including the ironing?”
“Okay, I don’t iron, she does that.”
“How often does she come in?”
“It used to be just once a week. We have an agreement that if she needs to come by more frequently now because there’s two of us living here, she will.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Alex sniffed as he snuggled into George’s side. “You were already upset with me. About the whole rent situation and bills and stuff. So when you said you’d split the chores with me I thought fuck, I can’t tell him that I get someone in to do all of that too.”
“You are so spoiled.”
“Yeah. That’s probably true.”
There was a light knock at the door, and Alex sprung to his feet to answer it, probably sensing his escape from the conversation. George thought it might take a while to decide how he really felt about the whole having money situation. There had never been any when he was a kid. Definitely none when he went to uni. And for the first few years of earning his own money it had been pretty tight, financially speaking. He’d never felt poor, not really, but his wages were carefully apportioned to different bills and debts.
He couldn’t get his knickers in a twist every time Alex reminded him that they didn’t need to count the pennies in this house. He’d spend a lot of time with twisted knickers if he did. This was part of Alex’s lifestyle, and George wasn’t about to ask Alex to try out the lifestyle he was accustomed to.
“Come on, you should eat something at an actual table, rather than at your desk or on the sofa,” Alex said as he walked through to the kitchen with the bag of takeaway food.
George grumbled as he rolled to his feet and followed Alex through.
The Italian place was something of an institution in Marchmont. The food wasn’t particularly outstanding, but it was cheap and hot and welcoming and tasty, and that was about all he needed right now.
“I’m going to call my mum tomorrow,” George said, apropos of nothing. Maybe it was the smell of the food, making him yearn for his mother’s cooking. “Remind me if I forget?”
“Okay,” Alex said easily.
He split the bag with the slices of garlic bread and set them in the middle of the kitchen table, the one that was designed for two people. George grabbed a bottle of red wine—any bottle, they were all the same to him—and a couple of glasses, and sat down in front of a steaming hot bowl of carbonara. Alex had ordered his usual thing: tagliatelle in some rich tomato and garlic sauce, with pink, curled prawns and sweet onions. It was a good thing they both liked garlic, that was for sure.
“Hey, Alex?”
“Mm?” Alex said through a mouthful of pasta.
“Do you want kids?”
Alex almost choked on that mouthful of pasta. He reached for the glass of wine George had just finished pouring for him and took a huge, gulping swallow of it. “Fucking hell, George. You can’t spring a question like that on me.”
“Sorry,” George said easily. “I was only wondering.”
Alex cleared his throat, poured more wine, and seemed to study George as he shovelled the carbonara into his mouth.
“Maybe,” he said eventually. “I like kids. I’m guessing you do?”
George shrugged. “There was always loads of kids around when I was at home. I quite like this too, though, you know? The two of us and our cleaner. Our nice, peaceful, clean house.”
Alex laughed. “Not much peace and quiet once you add eight kids to the mix.”
“Nope.”
“Can we shelve this conversation? For maybe, oh, I don’t know, another ten years?”
“Sure,” George said with a chuckle.
“Do you want to get married?” Alex asked.
George thought Alex was prob
ably trying to get him to react in the same way Alex had. Even though panic clawed at his belly in response to the question, George fought it back. His instinctive, negative reaction to the thought of marriage was really not the right thing. Sometimes his gut was wrong.
“Are you asking?” George asked with a slow, sly smirk.
Alex blinked. “I want to know if it’s something you want.”
“Yeah. It is. Maybe not for another ten years….”
That made Alex snort with laughter, and the tension that had been steadily growing between them started to melt away. George couldn’t quite believe that he was having this conversation while wearing possibly the scrubbiest, scruffiest clothes he owned, eating cheap takeaway after the week from hell… but then, sometimes that was what life threw your way.
“Tell you what,” Alex started, reaching for his wine, “when you’re ready, ask me.”
“I wasn’t planning on ever doing that,” George said. “Not after what you said about losing your title instead of me gaining one. I wouldn’t ever do that to you. Or ask you to walk away from that, just for me.”
Alex was already shaking his head. “I spoke to my uncle. He might have to ask for some laws to be changed, but… well, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”
George chuckled at the reference. “So, you want me to do the asking.”
“Yeah. You’re far more romantic than I am. I’d probably fuck it up.”
“Okay.”
Silence fell between them.
“Okay?” Alex demanded after a moment. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Yeah. Well, I’m not going to ask you right away.”
Alex sighed and turned back to his pasta. “I’ll tell Doug to hold off on those custom suits, then. He got in a right huff after I dressed you in Ted Baker, you know.”
“I’m not your Barbie doll, Alex.”
“Oh, calm down. I don’t need you getting pissy with me too. I had to tell Doug that it was a last-minute thing, and we had to go off-the-rack, otherwise you’d have to wear one of your ugly-as-fuck work suits and neither of us wanted that.”
“‘Us’ being you and Doug, I assume.”
“Of course. If he starts to grill you, that’s the story, okay? I swear, having a master tailor as a best friend is a fucking minefield.”
“I thought he made kilts.”
“Don’t,” Alex said, waving his fork at George to make a point. “If you get him started on that, you’ll never hear the end of it. Kilts, suits, the whole shebang. You should go down to the shop one day. He’d probably feel you up while he’s measuring you. That’s only because you’re a friend, though.”
“He got a plenty good look when he accosted me in the sauna.”
Alex chuckled, low and dirty. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“I haven’t,” George said darkly.
“Are you going to rugby tomorrow?” Alex asked.
George shrugged and wound more pasta around his fork. “I dunno. Maybe. I’d be happy to spend all day in bed to be honest.”
“That’s probably why you should go.”
George snorted. “Stop being so right. It’s rude.”
“The fresh air will do you the world of good. You’ve spent too much time inside this week.”
“And I haven’t been to the gym once.”
“And you haven’t been to the gym once,” Alex echoed. “What about that awesome body of yours? I don’t want you getting soft on me.”
“Yeah, alright, you’ve made your point,” he grouched, teasing.
They cleaned up the kitchen together, then retreated back to the living room to sprawl on the sofa and watch Guardians of the Galaxy and argue about who got to do whom—characters or actors—and in what order.
At one point George nearly fell asleep, and Alex poked him awake. “Do you want to go to bed?”
“Not yet,” George grumbled, stretching and yawning.
“Okay. Well, I’m not going to let you sleep on the sofa because you won’t sleep well tonight if you do.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“Piss off.”
George grinned.
Later, they stumbled downstairs and didn’t bother to turn on any lights as they made their way to bed. It was almost too familiar, sharing the sink while they brushed their teeth, wearing only boxers.
George watched as Alex undressed, letting his eyes feast on the exposed skin with its scars and bumps and freckles and hairs. He wasn’t perfect, but he was George’s, and that mattered.
Maybe it was the wine George didn’t normally drink, or the warm fuzzy feeling of it being late and they were alone and nothing else really mattered. Whatever it was, Alex was horny. George stripped off quickly and dragged Alex onto the bed, finding his mouth and kissing it thoroughly.
Their kisses were slow and teasing and hard and biting, fingers and knees and elbows all somehow as important as lips and tongues and teeth. George clutched Alex’s head between his palms and licked as deep inside his mouth as he could get, wanting all of him, all his flavour, his very breath.
He pushed Alex onto his back on the bed and pulled his boxers down and off, flinging them into some corner of the room, making Alex laugh. He sucked on the head of Alex’s cock, his tongue circling it slowly as his fingers gently petted and caressed his balls.
Alex threw his arms over his head and groaned decadently.
When he was starting to lift his hips up into George’s mouth, George took his cue, kissing up Alex’s smooth, toned chest and reaching for one of the condoms they kept in the drawer next to the bed.
Alex shook his head.
“What?” George asked.
“You don’t need that.”
George looked from Alex to the condom in his hand, then back again. “Uh, yes, I do.”
“It’s fine, George,” Alex said with a little smile. One of those little smiles he kept just for George.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Or put you at risk.”
“There isn’t any risk,” Alex said, sounding annoyed now. “You took the antibiotics, right? So you’re all clear.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t been back since. I need to make sure.”
Alex shook his head. “I trust you. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Fine,” Alex said with a sigh. “Use the fucking condom, I don’t care.”
George rolled off him. “Sadly this sexy as fuck conversation has scared off any chance I had of getting it in,” he snapped. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“That’s so unnecessary.”
George ignored him, grabbed a pillow and his boxers, then stomped upstairs.
Fortunately, the rest of the flat was warm and there were enough blankets around the living room for him to snuggle under. The sofa was comfortable enough. He’d napped on it a few times, lazy Sunday afternoons when Alex was out with Doug or one of his friends from uni.
He threw the pillow down at “his” end of the sofa and pulled the boxers on, not wanting to sleep on the sofa bare-ass naked. The blankets were soft, but not the same as cool cotton sheets, and he shifted about until he found a comfortable position.
Unsurprisingly, he slept like shit.
When he woke the next morning, it was late, according to the clock above the fireplace, and the flat felt still and empty. George knew by instinct that he was alone. He rolled off the sofa and stretched, feeling his back creak and clunk.
In the kitchen there was a cup of tea made for him, a coaster on the top to keep the heat in, and a note to one side from Alex, saying he’d gone out to the farmer’s market.
The tea was cold so George microwaved it, not wanting to waste it, not wanting to throw away the peace offering.
He’d been in the flat plenty of times on his own since moving in. Alex had his own life, his course at uni, his friends who he went out with, both with and without George. Being alone here after an argument felt different, though.
Even after A
lex had mixed all of George’s things in with his own, it still felt like Alex’s flat. Sure, there were framed photos of George’s family on the mantelpiece, and the one, lonely art print he’d ever bought now hung in the hallway. Alex didn’t look down on George’s stuff, he didn’t sneer at the fact that the frames had been bought in IKEA rather than some high-end boutique.
It was still Alex’s flat.
The microwave dinged, and George took his tea and walked around for a few minutes, from the kitchen to the back through to the huge living room at the front, with its high ceilings and massive windows. He pulled the blankets off the sofa and folded them, making an effort even though Alex would probably do it again anyway, and returned them to the backs of their respective chairs. He grabbed the pillow and took it back downstairs to toss on the bed and stopped for a moment, looking forlornly at Alex’s crumpled side and his own, the sheets still smooth and untouched.
Fuck.
George finished his tea, then set the mug down on the top of his chest of drawers to rifle through and find a pair of old jogging bottoms to pull on. He brushed his teeth, then went back upstairs to clean the kitchen. For lack of anything better to do.
Half an hour later he was rearranging the contents of the fridge when he caught the familiar sound of a key in the lock, then the rush of warm air from outside cut off by the door slamming shut.
George continued to clean.
He fucking hated cleaning the fridge. It was cold and slimy and gross.
“Hey,” Alex said.
“Hey.” George shut the fridge door and leaned back against the counter. He watched as Alex dumped a few bags on the kitchen table, then started to strip off his jacket. His cheeks were flushed from the walk home, and George loved him, all the way down to his bones.
“I’m sorry,” George said, “about last night. I don’t know if I’d had too much to drink or what, but—”
“Please don’t ever do that again,” Alex said. He was wearing a fine knit jumper, one of the cashmere ones that Doug had given him, over his jeans. The light grey looked gorgeous against his skin, and all George wanted to do was touch him. “I don’t ever want to go to sleep without you next to me.”
George folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Okay. My mum always used to say ‘never go to sleep on an argument.’”
