by Matthew Lang
“Fucked,” Patrick said. “You can say the word, Dave.”
“I’m not used to using it in conjunction with you.”
Patrick walked around the kitchen island and enveloped David in a hug. “Get used to it.”
“I hate to say this, but I’m not actually sure I’m up for it tonight,” David said, snuggling back into Patrick’s embrace.
“I have to be up at five thirty for a 7:00 a.m. start. Can I still sleep in the bed?”
“Could I stop you?”
“Probably not.”
Turning his head, David kissed his best friend. He tasted like salty bacon and tart pops of mustard seed. “Is food going to be involved every time I kiss you?”
“Maybe not every time,” Patrick said. “But maybe. I like you after food. You taste extra edible.”
“Extra edible?”
“You remember that cum cookbook you bought me as a joke two years ago?”
“What, really?”
“Not really,” Patrick said. “But you’re totally cumming down my throat tomorrow night.”
“Shut up,” David said. “Or you’ll start something neither of us can finish.”
He felt Patrick kiss the nape of his neck. “Don’t tempt me.”
Perhaps if he’d been less tired and wrung out. Perhaps if he couldn’t help thinking a bit guiltily about his four days with George. Perhaps if he hadn’t worked nonstop for nine days, he would have been raring to go and toppled Patrick onto the bed as clothes were thrown all over the room. Instead, David took a quick shower—alone—to rinse off the grime of travel and crawled into bed, where he was immediately wrapped up in Patrick’s arms.
“I didn’t know you were a snuggler,” David said, bringing one of Patrick’s hands up to his lips for a kiss.
“We never slept in the same bed before,” Patrick mumbled. “Although quite how I’ve evolved to sleep through your snoring I’ll never know.”
“That’s not how evolution works, you know.”
“Shut up and go to sleep already, Zhang.”
Chapter 10
DAVID WAS roused way too early by a shrill alarm and his octopus of a man sleepily disentangling their limbs.
“Go back to sleep,” Patrick said softly, giving him a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll leave breakfast for you.”
When his actual alarm jolted him awake, David found himself alone in his bed, although as he went about his morning routine, he kept stumbling across small reminders of Patrick’s presence in his life. There was the battered duffel bag that had probably come from OzBargains years ago sitting in front of his chest of drawers, and an extra toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom. Outside, there was a sticky note on his microwave.
Start toast, then one minute.
Two slices of multigrain bread were already in the toaster, and he pressed the lever down thoughtfully as he set the microwave to going. Turning to get his morning cup of tea, he found a mug already under the pod machine, and peeking in, he saw it was already a quarter full of milk. His finger hovered over the start button before he caved in and checked the pod holder, and smiled ruefully as he saw the exact shade of metallic blue that indicated one of his Earl Grey pods was already in place. The loud cyclonic chug and siphon sounds of the pod machine nearly masked the pop of the toaster and the ding from the microwave, and he opened the microwave door to find a plate with an omelette folded neatly onto it, a perfect semicircular pouch that was coloured with the green of herbs and red—probably tomato.
Opening his fridge, David was not unsurprised to see a tub of the spreadable butter that Patrick liked—the one that had a tendency to turn up whenever the man stayed over. Humming tunelessly under his breath, he slathered a generous portion onto his toast and then settled down on his barstool with a breakfast much more delicious than his usual toast with jam. Sometimes he’d grab a muffin or breakfast baguette along with a morning coffee on DeGraves Street on his way into the office. Having a cooked breakfast at home just seemed… indulgent. He wondered how Patrick managed to get the egg to still be soft and jellylike in the centre, even after a stint in both the frying pan and the microwave. Cheese may have been involved, but David had to admit that if it wasn’t for Patrick, his kitchen would probably have become a place to store teabags, pods for the coffee machine that probably made more hot chocolate and Earl Greys than coffee, and the occasional takeaway container.
As he polished off the last piece of toast, his eyes fell on a pile of paper, moved from the coffee table to the kitchen. There were several menus and pages with recipes and estimated costings per portion and retail price. On the top of one page he saw a formula scribbled in hasty, scratchy letters.
1/3 food + 1/3 labour + 1/3 overheads + 10% profit = Menu
The last word was underlined several times. Flipping over a few more pages, he found some sketches of a food truck and a few designs for decor and signage—one of simple line art in black biro with a bold knotwork design with an arrow reading red pointing towards it. Another was for a white van with green bamboo designs, which had been scribbled over in disgust, along with a note that read too generic… cultural rip-off. There was also a printed photo of the dim sum food truck David had seen around town, which featured teapot pattern designs and indeed, a teapot on the back of the van with a generic “Chinese” font, along with a close-up of their per-piece menu. Then there were a few printouts from government websites about permits and food registration or kitchen registration. David skimmed over most of text and dropped the sheaf of papers into his bag for further examination later.
David’s workday was much less dramatic and exciting than the last few days, and he spent most of it up to his eyebrows in a never-ending flow of spreadsheets. Every now and then, he opened a Word document and made a few notes, often pulling out other presentations and briefs to compare visual presentations. He also spent some time making discreet orders to a number of freelancers and made a few phone calls to a number of contacts in the real banks.
At three thirty, he received a text from Patrick.
where’s my papers
?
Sorry, he wrote back. Stole them. Will return them later.
meet 4 dinner? working in oakleigh tmr—can’t stay over
David’s calm vanished down the plughole of sucking emotional nastiness. Not seeing Patrick in the evening? That was… just like the majority of his evenings had always been, so why was it such an issue now? He stared at his mobile, backlit screen glowing accusingly at him. His eyes fell on his desk phone and the small plastic folder just off to the side of his keyboard. He’d been looking forward to tonight.
Quit already. You have appointments on Friday with two different banks about small business loans.
wat
If you weren’t serious, you shouldn’t have left those plans somewhere I could find them.
<3
Hm. He’d never received that before. That said, it wasn’t like that was inaccurate or anything. In his own way, he’d always loved Patrick. He was his best friend. Brother even. He thought back to Saturday night. Okay, not brother. That would be weirdly incestuous. Also kind of hot, but—
You too. I’ll be back by 7
O_o u pull 2 much OT
I don’t get overtime.
u no wat I mean
See you later Patrick.
When he looked up, he noticed some of his co-workers were staring at him strangely. “What?”
Most of them turned away, but one walked over to his desk. “New boyfriend?” Alicia asked.
David paused, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. “No, actually. Just happy.”
“Sure, you’ll have to introduce him to us one day, you know.”
“What makes you think I have a new boyfriend?”
“Because you never giggle like that unless you have a new boyfriend,” Alicia said over her shoulder as she headed back to her own desk.
Chapter 11
BOYFRIEND.
Was that w
hat Patrick was now? Maybe that was something to talk about. Or think about. Thinking was better. Talking was scary. All he really knew was that Patrick evoked a range of confusing feelings that he wasn’t really able to define. Patrick was an adorable, giant puppy who bounced around David with an energetic happiness and a love for life that was contagious and got David out of the house doing things he never dreamed he’d do. White-water rafting? Sure! Trekking along river gorges gripping onto a thick metal cable to avoid falling into the river below? Why not. Kite surfing? Well, they’d tried that one. It had taken a few days to recover afterwards, but it had still been worth it. Patrick had looked hot in his board shorts and sunglasses, muscles accented by the thick straps of the body harness. He’d grinned unselfconsciously as he adjusted himself before launching up into the wind. Then there’d been the sunburn and the falling over and getting tangled in the cables—he was sure the instructor had called them something else, but he’d always thought of them as cables. Still, it had been fun. Patrick was fun. And hunky, his groin reminded him. Patrick was hunky. You’ve just been trying not to notice for years and years. Well, okay, David’s brain had noticed. Many times. But he’d been Patrick. Hot, off-limits, and his best friend. Either David had never thought of him sexually or had done a very good memory purge and convinced himself that he’d never thought of Patrick sexually. Same result.
Glancing around, he opened up another spreadsheet and reminded himself it really wasn’t a good idea to get a hard-on in the office. Not while he was wearing boxer shorts and suit pants. That combination showed every bulge.
beef wellington ok? Need 2 try new recipe
Patrick was thoughtful. Always had been. Still, it wouldn’t do to swoon at every single nice thing Patrick did for him. That would be… sappy. Sure. For the new menu?
Nah, u just always order it at pub so have 2 learn
Crap. So much for not swooning.
It hadn’t always been the case, but David felt a bit melty inside every time he thought about Patrick. A bit like everything was going into soft focus and there was a soft romantic pop ballad of a soundtrack about to swell in the background while his co-workers developed unusually precise and well-choreographed improvised dancing abilities. He shouldn’t have been feeling like this. Really. They’d been dating less than a week.
Is there a reason you’re being extra nice to me?
Only, if he really thought about it, he knew Patrick better than he’d known any of his ex-boyfriends. He suspected out of everyone in the whole world, it was Patrick who knew him the best. Patrick knew all of the little things that drove him irrationally batshit crazy, like spots of toothpaste congealing on the bathroom sink or yesterday’s spaghetti bolognaise pots still encrusted with tomato and mince on the stove. In the sink and soaking was fine—just not on the stove. Likewise, David knew Patrick couldn’t stand DVDs stacked horizontally on top of vertically organised cases, regardless of whether there was enough room on his oversized shelves to fit them in. Patrick didn’t get or care about visual art. He didn’t mind it being up as long as it didn’t include people staring at him, but every piece of wall art in his apartment had been purchased by either David, Li Ling, or both. Patrick didn’t really like being touched. Or… hugged.
Except with David. He and Li Ling had held hands, sure, but they never seemed that close in public. But Patrick had always hugged him. Sometimes he’d wrap an arm around David’s shoulders when they were walking and give him an affectionate sideways squeeze. Or a noogie. David wasn’t fond of those. Which was probably why Patrick did it. The same way David would deliberately put a teaspoon into the dinner spoon section of the cutlery drawer, or put the whisk into the third drawer over the fourth, if he thought he’d be around to watch Patrick explode later. David knew Patrick constantly worried his sex drive was too high compared to his girlfriend’s and was often scared to even initiate something sexual. David also knew that exact spot on Patrick’s side that would make him turn into a giggling mess. Sadly, Patrick knew about the spot on the left side of David’s neck, so that one didn’t get exploited often.
Are u really going to make me say the B wrd or L word 1st? srsly?
Damn it. Surely this was moving things along too fast.
Are you sure this is what you really want? Are you sure you know what this means?
We have sex now? The text came back almost immediately. not rly much more past that, right?
Be serious Patto!
i am. plus we stop correcting ppl who think we’re a couple.
He was about to reply when another text came in.
tell me the thought of me on my knees under ur desk blowing u doesn’t make you drool.
Oh yeah, Patrick had heard quite a few of his fantasies. In detail. Patrick had always been vague about his own, though.
Not fair Patto! You never told me yours.
i can tell you tonight? mostly involve u anyway
Going now. If you make me any harder people here are going to notice.
Ralph already does—eyes ur ass when ur not looking
Startled, David’s gaze snapped up, and he stared over at his younger colleague, who was currently inside his own world of numbers, his collar quirked and tie tugged loose. He must have stared too long, because Ralph looked up and blinked. “Dave, everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah, just… thinking.”
“Um… cool. Just checking. Sometimes I do that too—”
“What? Thinking?” Alicia asked from where she sat twirling a highlighter in her long fingers as she read through several sheets of printouts.
Ralph flushed. “Stare into nowhere while thinking,” he said defensively.
“Uh-huh,” Alicia said. “Your pretty-boy looks will get you everywhere, right?”
“Whatever.” Ralph turned back to his computer, but from where he sat, David could see the tips of his ears turning a deep, purplish red.
Alicia caught his eye and grinned and then turned back to her own work, leaving him alone with his thoughts again.
He just caught you staring didn’t he?
How did you know?
i speak fluent Zhang, the flippant reply came. now r u coming back early or wat?
David looked at the digits in the corner of his monitor, which read 16:38. Rising to his feet, he stretched, and rolled his neck, listening to the joints crack and pop. “I’m heading home, you guys,” he said. “My eyes don’t want to focus on the screen anymore.”
“Well, you did just work the entire weekend in M&A,” Ralph said. “I don’t know how you can stand that.”
“M&A have nothing to do with it,” Alicia said with a grin. “He’s just got a nice piece of ass waiting for him at home.”
“Alicia!” Ralph gasped.
“What? Stick around a bit, kid, and you’ll learn to read the signs of new boyfriend-itis as surely as the terror that is the workaholic, post-breakup headlong dive into work as exhibited by one David Zhang. Isn’t that right, Mr Grant?”
Mr Grant was the patriarch of their little team, and the most typical of the banking industry. Middle-aged, conservative, married with two kids, and with few interests outside of work, food, and golf. He was also the only team member given the privilege of an honorific, even by their boss, Madeleine. On the other hand, he was always the voice of wisdom and learning and happy to share his expertise with his younger colleagues—at least between the hours of eight and five Monday to Friday.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Alicia,” he said calmly, not looking up from his work.
“Since when was Dave a gentleman?” Alicia asked. “I’ve seen him at Midsumma.”
“You were drunk,” Dave objected.
“I still have video.”
“Okay, as great as this is, my head’s not getting any clearer, so I’m going to switch off,” David said, shutting his laptop and gathering his papers, taking specific care to place the food truck files in the centre of the stack.
“Say hi to your boyfriend
for us,” Alicia called.
I don’t have a boyfriend. The words stuck in his throat, and he settled for flipping Alicia off instead. Turned out he did have a boyfriend.
One he may have just cheated on while in Sydney.
Chapter 12
OUTSIDE, THE sky had turned cloudy, and a light drizzle fell steadily over the concrete, steel, and glass of the city, although the afternoon air was warm and thick with humidity. His body moved on autopilot, opening his conservative black umbrella as his feet took him to the tram stop that would take him home along the Collins Street financial skyscrapers and past the trendy cafes and fusion restaurants of South Melbourne to his apartment that Patrick had been given a key to years ago. In the pre-rush hour crush, David was buffeted and borne up by a press of sweaty bodies packed tighter than the dance floor at Sydney Mardi Gras, filling the number twelve tram as it rattled away from the wavy roof of Southern Cross Station. Some would get off to visit Crown Casino’s pokie machines, blackjack tables, or twenty-four-hour food court. Others got off at Clarendon Street to get pho or whatever the current foodie craze was.
He eventually found a seat, and unlike most journeys, his phone stayed in his pocket as the tram rattled along the centre of the wide city streets, damp with the rain and the smell of summer sweat. The lift took longer than normal, and he got the dodgy one at the end with its walls covered with cardboard and tarpaulins that was designated for furniture and tradespeople. There were always tradies going up and down the floors of his complex, although he could never hear them nor see any piles of building material that would indicate renovation. Or maybe they were just really good at their jobs. There was always that option.
When the electronic lift lady voice finally announced the seventeenth floor, he was standing impatiently at the doors, feeling his breath hitting his face where the rush of air bounced off the closed metal doors, and then the light changed as they opened into the airy grey of the corridor. Then it was through a glass door and along that interminable corridor to his corner apartment, where Patrick was waiting. Would be waiting. David’s pace quickened, and he nearly dropped his keys, but if anything his nerves only heightened when he pushed through the outside door to the small private balcony area that looked out over the city that only corner apartments had. Then it was the inner door that wasn’t locked, and there was Patrick, standing in the kitchen, shirtless and barefoot in faded jeans and David’s novelty apron.
