by Alexis Hall
Unfortunately, the first door he tried led him into a bedroom. Probably Fen’s bedroom. Another dank little room, floor strewn with piles of clothes. And a futon mattress with rumpled sheets, one pillow still bearing the depression of a head and a few twists of silver-gold hair. He stared in a kind of shock, trying to work out whether he was a complete pervert or there was actually something intimate about the place where someone slept. After all, usually by the time you were being let into someone’s bedroom, they’d tidied it up for you. Made it a reflection of the person they wanted you to see. Whereas, this was just a mess. A very human, very private mess. Which Alfie shouldn’t have been looking at. But it was like seeing Fen naked again. Seeing him smile.
There was a familiar pink jumper thrown into a far corner and a book, splayed open, pages down, at the foot of the mattress. A Grief Observed. Very carefully, so as not to lose Fen’s place, he picked it up and turned it over. “This is one of the things I’m afraid of. The agonies, the mad midnight moments, must, in the course of nature, die away. But what will follow? Just this apathy, this dead flatness? Will there come a time when I no longer ask why the world is like a mean street, because I shall take the squalor as normal?”
He wasn’t a big reader. Didn’t really have time for it now, and hadn’t had the patience when he was younger. It had a faint taint of sissy-ness, but also seemed inaccessible: all those fictional lives and worlds. But there was something about this scene, and these words, that reached him, stirring a kind of nebulous pain. A . . . loneliness, maybe, he both recognised and wanted to assuage.
He hastily put the book back where he’d found it and made his escape. Thankfully, he found the living room next, which seemed a more acceptable place to lurk. It had a view of the delivery yard and the wheelie bins, which gave it the rare luxury of natural light. There was a sagging sofa and an assortment of old, mismatched furniture, but it wasn’t exactly what Alfie would have called cosy. He would probably have balked at habitable. All the same, he slumped onto the sofa. They could be friends. It looked about as bad as he felt.
Fen was everywhere again. In the cigarette ends piled up in the ash-stained saucer on the coffee table. In the slick, shiny laptop that sat next to it. In the books on the floor. And the scattered LPs. Alfie picked one up and looked at the sleeve. Rex Harrison & Julie Andrews: My Fair Lady.
His parents used to have a record player. He’d been sort of terrified and fascinated by it at the same time, and he’d never quite mastered it. The fragility of all the bits and pieces, fitting the needle to the groove without scratching or shrieking. The faint, familiar crackle like old leaves and paper before the song began to play. Then came cassettes, CDs, the doomed fad of minidiscs, making music something easy. And now of course it was all digital. Simple and thoughtless. No crackle. No anxiety. Better in pretty much every way, except you no longer had physical things to collect and to hold and pin your love to.
Was this how Fen spent his evenings? Sitting on this sofa, smoking? On his laptop? Or listening to these records? He wouldn’t fumble with the needle. And he would know exactly how to hold the discs so as not to drop or scratch them, cupped against the heel of his hand, supported by his pale, rough-tender fingers.
When Fen actually came into the room, a few minutes later, it almost felt like Alfie had brought him there by thinking about him too hard. He put My Fair Lady down on top of Kiss Me, Kate, and braced himself for another well-deserved shouting at.
But Fen didn’t shout. Or say anything at all. He just stood awkwardly in the doorway to his own living room, not quite meeting Alfie’s eyes.
“Everything’s in hand.” Alfie squirmed in the squidgy embrace of the sofa. It might have looked like an alien from the sixties Star Trek, but it was shockingly warm and comfortable.
Fen still wouldn’t look at him. “Yeah, I saw. I just wanted to say . . .” He’d gone a little pink. He stepped forward, brought a hand out from behind his back, and offered Alfie a chunky purple flower. “Thank you.”
“Uh.” Alfie really wasn’t sure he wanted a flower. But Fen was sort of half smiling at him, eyes slightly downcast to expose the absurdly opulent sweep of his lashes. “Okay.”
He took the damn thing and stared at it, trying to think of something he could possibly say. It was . . . well, it was nice? It had a thick, scaly stem and the flower itself was partially enclosed in similar tough, diamond-patterned leaves, like it was resting at the base of two cupped hands. The petals themselves were oddly delicate, their edges as intricate as old lace. “It’s . . . uh . . . hard-core.”
Fen nodded. “You’d better believe it.”
And because it was the kind of thing people did in movies and gardening shows, Alfie obligingly stuffed his nose into the heart of his hard-core man-flower. Then recoiled. “Bugger me.”
“Sorry. I should have warned you not to do that.”
“Smells rank, mate. What the fuck is it?”
“It’s, well, it’s a cabbage.”
There was a pause.
“An ornamental cabbage,” added Fen, as if this would somehow make it better.
Alfie had never been given flowers—well, a flower—before. He was pretty sure it wasn’t the sort of thing that was supposed to happen, but he surprised himself by . . . well . . . by not feeling nearly as weirded out or outraged as he thought he probably should. “I love it, mate. Thank you. Do I have to put it in water or something?”
“Yes, yes—” Fen seemed to be trying very hard to be casual, but his still-pink cheeks and his softly gleaming eyes betrayed him “—as we have established flowers need water.”
There was a pause. Alfie laid the cabbage carefully on the arm of the sofa.
“I don’t get you, Fen.”
Another step forward. A lift of the brows. “Oh?”
“Well, I try to make things right, and you want to put my head down the toilet. I completely fuck up your bathroom, and you give me a flower.”
“I’m complicated.”
Alfie would have replied, but Fen was suddenly standing right in front of him, and that was distracting, because he was all close and smiling and flowery. Then one of Fen’s knees landed on the sofa in the space next to his leg. Followed by the other on the other side. And now Fen was straddling him, not quite in his lap, but it wouldn’t have taken much, and all Alfie could think was, Wow. Because everything about him was hot and taut and straining somehow, like the fabric of his trousers across his very spread thighs. Which was where Alfie instinctively splayed his hands, feeling Fen’s response in the tremor that ran through those long, lean muscles. Which made Alfie imagine having Fen like this again, but naked. White and gold, and rough and smooth, just beginning to sweat and flush and tremble.
Lean forward, Alfie would tell him. Put your hands on the sofa back. And Fen would, he would. Arch his back and lift his hips, and offer himself to Alfie.
Fen—the real, fully dressed one—moved a little closer. His hair and his breath tickled Alfie’s cheek. “You sorted it. Just like you said you would.”
“Yeah but—”Alfie dug his fingers into Fen’s thighs, trying to resist the urge to just reach out and claim him “—I was the one who messed it up.”
“I don’t care. You still came through for me. I think I’ve almost forgotten what that feels like.”
Their lips were so close. All these offerings. A mouth, a kiss, a flower. But then came the bang of a door from down the hall, and Alfie bucked hard enough to nearly throw Fen off his lap.
There was a moment of undignified scrabbling before Fen steadied, his hands spider-monkey tight on Alfie’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh nowt . . . nothing. Just, y’know . . . Dad’s right there.”
Fen’s eyes met his, sharp behind his silver frames. “You’re not in the closet?”
“No. No. They definitely know I’m gay.”
There was a silence. Alfie squirmed again.
“It’s just,” he went on, “they don’t nee
d to see me.”
“See you what?”
“You know. Being gay.”
“With me?”
“In general.”
Fen just stared at him, expression unreadable. For a moment, Alfie thought he might have pissed him off, but all he said was, “Oh, Alfie Bell,” in this unexpectedly gentle way.
“We still on for tonight, yeah?” It was supposed to sound casual, but it came out . . . not like that. But then he’d shown himself up in a bunch of ways today, what with the Don’t-It-Yourself and being thirty years old and still scared of his dad, and he wouldn’t have been at all that surprised if Fen had changed his mind. Somehow, just then, being a bully seemed more forgivable than being useless and pathetic.
“Of course.” Fen slid away, leaving Alfie both regretful and relieved. “I heard a hot boy was picking me up at seven.”
Alfie attempted a smile. “And wait till you see his car.”
“Yes, I will see it, and I will think: that is definitely a car. You could drive me to dinner in a pumpkin, and I probably wouldn’t notice.”
“If that’s true, you are going to be so educated.”
“Great. A man wants to teach me about cars.” Fen pulled a face. “I can’t tell if I feel patronised or turned on.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to be patronising.”
“In which case—” Fen cast a sly look over his shoulder as he left “—maybe a bit of both.”
It wasn’t too long before his dad and the DIY Army were finished in the bathroom. They called him to explain what they’d done, none of which he really understood, except for the fact there was no longer water pouring from a hole in the wall and where there had been a water-pouring-from-a-hole-in-the-wall situation, was now neatly plastered over. Which, of course, made Alfie’s attempt look even more grotesque. Like that story they’d read at school about the guy who freaked out and buried his wife—or was it his cat, or maybe his wife’s cat, or was there an old man—in a wall. Actually, he couldn’t remember. Except there’d definitely been a murder and an impromptu tomb, and then horrible, horrible, guilt.
Now everyone was looking at him. Alfie stared at his feet. “Thanks, Da.”
“You know me.”
His dad was putting away his tools, his movements swift and smooth with familiarity. Alfie wanted to say, No, I don’t. But he was in a room full of strangers. And, even if he hadn’t been, even if it’d just been the two of them, he wouldn’t have said it. Too afraid of the answer.
They all trooped downstairs and through the shop, Alfie trailing along behind like the kid who always got picked last for sports. He’d secretly been hoping to hustle everyone out quickly, but Fen was out front, and so there was no way to avoid him. As it turned out, he’d made little thank-you bouquets for everyone to take home with them. And apparently Alfie’s mam liked gerberas. Who knew? Not that he would have previously been able to recognise a gerbera anyway—turned out, they were the big, bright daisy things.
Fen was sweetly effusive in his gratitude, though the lack of North East in his accent made Alfie acutely aware of how southern his own must have sounded to everyone else. He was also braced for disaster, because Fen was so very Fen, with his expressive hands and his fluttery lashes and his look-at-me-squeeze-me-don’t-you-want-to-be-in-me arse. But it turned out that breathless admiration for your home repair skills transcended gender, and everyone left in a good mood. Except Alfie, who felt resentful and cheated because it should have been his home repair skills. Apart from the fact he didn’t have any.
“He’s a decent lad,” Alfred Senior said, as Alfie and Billy helped him settle the tools in the boot of his car. “Nora’s boy.” Alfie was so surprised at this rare praise that he nearly dropped . . . he didn’t know what he nearly dropped. Some kind of T-shaped stainless steel wrench. His dad took whatever-it-was away from him and stowed it with the rest of the gear. “Bent as a nine-bob note, of course.”
Nothing happened. The sky didn’t cave in or fire burst up from under the pavement.
In the end, it was Billy who broke the silence. “Howay, Da. Ye knaa Alfie . . .”
“Aye, ah do, but it’s not the same. Ye divvent see wor Alfie meking posies, wi’ pink in his hair.”
“No,” said Alfie quickly, “and you won’t. I’m not like that.”
His dad slammed the boot. Then got in the car and drove off without another word. For a second, Alfie thought he’d looked back, but it turned out he was just checking the rear-view mirror.
Billy was still there, though, and it seemed like he might say something. Whatever it was, Alfie wasn’t in the mood to hear it. So he got into his own car and drove off too.
10
Fen was about ten minutes late, which was just long enough to make Alfie twitchy and wonder if he’d changed his mind. But then the side door opened, and Fen stepped out. The sight of him, all neat and sharp and strangely sexy, made Alfie grin like a fool. He put his fingers to his lips and wolf-whistled. The sound was too loud in the quiet evening, wrong and right at the same time.
Fen jumped and spun round, and then saw Alfie leaning against his car. He laughed, half-relieved, half-grudging. He was in dark-wash jeans and a pale-pink herringbone shirt, the sleeves pushed back to reveal his forearms with their secret dusting of soft, golden hair. Then there was a pin-striped waistcoat and a matching trilby, dipped rather coyly over one eye. The lenses in his dark-framed glasses were tinted smoky pink.
“What’s with the glasses?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Fen’s brow tightened, his expression too sad to be a frown. “Sometimes I like my world a little rose-coloured.”
“Ready to go?”
“Give me a moment. I just need to pull down the grille.”
Alfie tried not to stare after Fen’s beautifully denim-framed arse as he walked round to the front of the shop. Or at the curve of his spine and the press of his biceps beneath his shirt as he stretched up to pull down the shutter. He went up onto his toes like a ballet dancer, his entire body drawn into a tightly gleaming line, all of it poised, all of it reaching.
“Uh, let me help?” he offered.
But then, with a tug, a rattle, and a crash, it was done, and the grille dropped into place. Someone had spray-painted Faggot’s Flowers across the front in bright, bubbly letters, though the apostrophe and the second g in faggot were in a slightly different colour by a somewhat neater hand.
“What the fuck?”
Fen hooked his thumbs over the pockets of his jeans. “Well, it’s not inaccurate.”
“Mate, get it cleaned.”
“My God—” Fen pressed a hand dramatically to his heart as if to calm its beating “—why didn’t I think of that?”
“What am I missing?”
“You’re missing, Alfie Bell, the very basic fact that there’s no fucking point. They can spray it on faster than I can scrub it off.”
The words, so horrible and so cheerful, swam before Alfie’s eyes. “Can’t you call the police like?”
“And say what? Someone is violating spelling outside my shop?”
“But, but, look at it. Fucking look at it. That’s . . . a hate crime.”
“It’s graffiti, Alfie.” Fen sighed. He looked very small right then, tucked in on himself. “Not worth anybody’s worry. Please? Can we just go?”
Alfie wanted to say that no they couldn’t, not until they’d done something, but he had just enough presence of mind to recognise that spending the evening scrubbing homophobic graffiti off a wall probably wasn’t the best way to show a boy a good time.
“Yeah, all right.” He went round, unlocked the passenger door, and held it open.
Fen stared at him like he’d lost it. “What are you doing?”
“I’m inviting you to get in my car?”
“I’m not Cinderella going to the ball. I can get in a car.”
“God. I’m just being polite.”
“If I was your grandma, maybe.”
“
Are you going to be like this all night?” asked Alfie, in what he thought was a very patient voice.
“I am if you’re going to treat me like a prom date.”
“Fine. Get in the fucking car. How’s that?”
“Kind of threatening.”
Alfie made an exasperated noise, but then he saw the twitch at the corner of Fen’s lips. Laughing, he leaned over the top of the door and kissed him, right on that fleeting edge of a smile.
Fen gasped. Pressed forward. Reared back. “Oh. Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Doing this to me. You’re such a Neanderthal, and I shouldn’t like it.”
“How is being chivalrous being a Neanderthal?”
“Oh God.” Fen put a hand to his brow. “Did you just say chivalrous?”
Alfie sighed. “Let me guess, it’s a bad thing now. Because of Tumblr or something.”
More staring from Fen.
“Look, I get it, feminism blah blah, kyriarchy blah blah, but I can’t help how I was raised. And if you tell me you don’t want something, or you don’t like it, or I’m making you feel shitty, then I won’t do it. But I’m not going to stop wanting to take care of you—uh, people.”
“I don’t need taking care of.”
“Everyone needs taking care of.” Alfie wished he could see Fen’s eyes. From the crease running right between them, and the shadow behind the lenses, he thought maybe they were closed. He reached out and ran his finger gently up and down that anxious little line until it vanished. “It’s all right.”
“I’ve forgotten what all right feels like, Alfie Bell.” Fen slipped past Alfie and into the car, pulling the door closed behind him with a pointed slam.
Alfie rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t really offended. There was something especially sexy about Fen when he was prickly. It brought light to his eyes and—strangely—softness to his mouth. Made him seem so . . . bright. The way he was supposed to be. Not the curled-up, strung-tight, hollow person Alfie saw sometimes instead.
