The Beginning (Starting Over)

by Matthew J. Metzger

  “Ahh.” Aled nodded. “Fair enough. Were you serious about the shop?”

  “Um, yes?”

  “Whatever you’re doing, I hope you don’t expect any help after the day I’ve had…”

  Aled got the idea at B&Q itself, raising his eyebrows at the two massive cans of jasmine white that Gabriel took down from the shelf and asking if he was going to do the whole house before getting out his credit card. But when they got home, he stood aside as Gabriel lined up the rollers, and offered to make dinner.

  “Please,” Gabriel said.

  “Want a hand with this lot, or—”

  “Nope!”

  Gabriel liked DIY. He’d never had a dad to teach him, and his fading memories of the shitty flats he’d been dragged up in around South London said loud and clear that his mother had never so much as cleaned the filthy pits in her life. So when he’d escaped, learning to do better had been at the top of his list. His first boyfriend had taught him how to keep a place clean, then Kevin had come along and taught him how to fix things. He’d never got the hang of electrics, but he could fix a leaky sink, bleed a radiator, top up a boiler and paint a wall with no problem.

  And he enjoyed it. It was his little proof, when his mood was low and the booze aisle was terrifyingly tempting, that he’d dragged himself out of that shitty start in his life. Whenever the dark thoughts in the back of his mind rose up and asked who he thought he was, why he thought a fuck-up like him from a sink estate in shitsville could amount to anything, what made him better than a free whore, he could look at the perfectly tiled bathroom floor or the lavender bushes in the back garden and squash all the bad thoughts down again.

  After all, here he was. Painting the hall of a house he part-owned while his partner made enchiladas.

  “Did you check the post this morning?” Aled called, breaking Gabriel’s train of thought.

  “No. Got distracted by prepping the walls. Left it all on the table for you.”

  “There’s an NHS letter for you.”

  “What’s it say?”

  Paper ripped. Aled mumbled to himself briefly, then said, “You’re due a smear test.”

  “Urgh,” Gabriel said. “Though that reminds me. What’s your savings like?”

  “Decent,” Aled said. “Why?”

  “Been thinking of having my ovaries out.”

  “An oophorectomy?”

  “A what?”

  “That’s what it’s called.”

  “Why on earth do you know that?” Gabriel demanded.

  “Mum had it done. Cancer.”

  Oh, shit.

  “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  “S’all right,” Aled said, coming to lean in the kitchen doorway. “I’m guessing you just want to dodge the baby bullet, though?”

  “Yeah. And I’ve heard it reduces mood swings.” And random periods, though he wasn’t as bothered about them as he used to be.

  “And I’m guessing after your lovely experiences after headbutting a bus, you want to go private?”

  Gabriel flipped him off, but nodded. “I’d prefer it.”

  Gabriel’s experience of the NHS was uniformly negative. From the GP who’d outed him to his abusive mother to the nurses who’d placed him on a female ward after his car accident. He hated the NHS. Whenever he saw those ‘save the NHS’ protests, a savage and selfish part of him wanted to let it burn. If he wasn’t allowed to have any dignity or help from the cunts, why should anyone else?

  “Going by how much they fought to avoid giving me the hormones, I don’t think getting something surgically removed is going to be any easier,” he said. “And I’m fed up with having to prove I’m a bloke and not bonkers every time I talk to them. So yeah. If we have the savings, I’d rather just do it privately.”

  “See what we get for this place,” Aled said. “And what prices they’re asking for to get a decent house in St Ives.”

  “You want St Ives itself, then?”

  “If we can afford it. Once we’re all moved, we can look again at the savings and work something out. That sound okay?”

  “More than. Thank you.”

  “No problem, sweetheart.” Something sizzled and he retreated. “Extra cheese?”

  “Duh,” Gabriel replied, but curled his toes in his shoes at the casual support. Aled was a bit of a lummox when it came to gender stuff. He was so cis it was laughable. But Gabriel never minded, because of that simple, steady support. If Gabriel needed something, Aled would help him get it. He smiled at the brushes as he set them aside, and decided they could have a little fun later as a reward. Maybe Aled wouldn’t be satisfied with his work and they could play.

  Aled brought both enchiladas on a large plate and sat on the stairs with it on his knees, Gabriel sneaking forkfuls between passes with the rollers. They talked idly, slagging off a neighbour’s parking skills. The pale green wall turned a bright white and, in no time at all, the first coat was done.

  “It already looks better,” Aled opined.

  “Good.”

  “So what else is on your list?”

  “Fresh coat of paint in every room,” Gabriel said, getting out the brushes again to start lining the skirting board in the living room. “Fix the spare room door. New laminate in the kitchen—I’ll ask Kevin to give me a hand with that. Hang some mirrors to make the rooms look bigger and brighter. Sort that bottom kitchen drawer…”

  “Have you been watching Homes Under the Hammer again?”

  “Not recently, but…”

  Aled chuckled. “Honestly, thank you. It’ll be a big help if you can get most of this sorted while I wrangle with the mortgage provider.”

  “Tell you what,” Gabriel said. “You sort the sale, and I’ll sort getting it ready for sale. How’s that?”

  “Deal,” Aled said. “Though I’ll give you a hand with the living room paint, or you’ll not be getting to bed until midnight.”

  “I can do tha—”

  “I have designs on you in that bed before midnight, thank you.”

  Gabriel flashed a grin over his shoulder. “You want to play?”

  “Haven’t decided yet,” Aled replied.

  He joined in with the painting once he’d washed up and changed into some scruffs, and soon the living room glowed the same fresh white as the hall. Gabriel made for the brushes again—why not add the kitchen and finish off the ground floor completely?—but his wrists were caught in paint-flecked hands and he was towed backwards into Aled’s chest.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Aled murmured, kissing his neck. “Told you. Designs. And we both have work in the morning, so let’s put those plans into motion, hm?”

  Gabriel grinned, squirming free. “Okay, okay. Let me wash them first, though.”

  Aled smacked him on the bum, propelling him towards the kitchen, but left him alone to clean up. He wandered off upstairs for a shower, and Gabriel turned the possibilities over in his head as he cleaned up. Definitely a game. He knew that predatory look a mile off. He was going to get fucked. But what kind to ask for? His arms ached from the rollers, so bondage wasn’t going to be very good…

  He still hadn’t come to a decision when Aled came back down in his briefs to chivvy him along, biting again as they stood at the sink and rubbing hot hands around Gabriel’s stomach to play with his belt.

  “Come on,” he insisted. “Bedtime.”

  “Mm, just—”

  “Bed.”

  Gabriel was towed backwards to the stairs, ending up on the bottom step with Aled’s legs around his waist and both arms around his shoulders. The kiss on the back of the head was expected. The hands toying with the edges of his binder were definitely expected.

  The question was not.

  “Have you told Chris what we’ve decided yet?”

  “Not yet,” Gabriel admitted.

  Another kiss grazed his ear.

  “Can I ask you to bump that up your to-do list?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do it tomorrow,” Ale
d murmured. “Tonight, let me say thank you.”

  Gabriel shivered as the words washed over his ear. “H-how?”

  “Any game you want,” Aled whispered.

  Gabriel curled his toes. His earlier ideas fled. Any game? He didn’t have to think twice.

  “I’ve been calling other men behind your back,” he lied. “Punish me.”

  He could always call Chris in the afternoon, once his voice was better.

  Chapter Nine

  When Gabriel’s number flashed up on his phone, Chris muted the movie.

  “Hey.”

  “He-ey. So. News.”

  Chris sat up. “News?”

  “Moving news.”

  Oh.

  “You and Aled talked?”

  “Yeah. He brought it up yesterday.”

  “And?”

  Gabriel laughed. “So I was right.”

  “About?” Chris prompted.

  “He wants the job that Tom offered, but he was terrified I was going to want to stay here, or I’d have a big alcoholic relapse if we moved and I was too far away from Kevin.”

  “I’m guessing you set him straight, then?” Chris said.

  “Yeah. In a few ways that you don’t like to hear the details of,” Gabriel admitted. “But long story short, we’re moving to St Ives.”

  Chris’ jaw sagged. “That’s it? You decided just like that? Really?”

  He was honestly shocked. As much as Aled teased him about being emotionally overcautious, Aled was the overcautious one when it came to practical decisions like jobs and houses. It had taken them months to agree on a new place to live when Gabriel had wanted to sell up from the old house on Henry Street. Chris hadn’t expected a decision just like that—and nothing so precise as the exact town.

  “Yep!”

  “Oh wow.”

  This changed things. He’d been hoping for just closer. Closer—anywhere closer—would have worked wonders. But St Ives itself—

  “I could do that,” he said.

  Gabriel laughed again, sounding a little giddy. “Isn’t it perfect?”

  “That’s—Jesus. Wow.”

  “I know, right!”

  “So—so like, how? Did you discuss us? Did—”

  “Well, his best friend lives in St Ives so Aled is pitching for somewhere around there. He mentioned that first when we talked about it,” Gabriel said. “But I don’t know exactly how we’ll arrange it yet. He did say he’d prefer separate houses.”

  “Honestly, me too. That stay was cramped.”

  “We could try for nearby, though?” Gabriel wheedled. “Like, same town at least? Walking distance?”

  “Yeah, ideally,” Chris said. His mind was spinning. No more long train journeys. No more elaborate planning around work. “I have an interested buyer for the bungalow already. One of Mum’s neighbours. So…I’ll probably be on the move first, right?”

  “Probably. Aled has to give a month’s notice anyway, and we need to spruce this house up a little bit first.”

  “So…I could always go job shopping in Penzance or somewhere,” Chris said. “Find work and a flat. And then—it’s just Cornwall, right? It’s not that big. So, wherever you are, you won’t be too far. And then we can work out a better nearby situation once you’re here and we’ve all got a better idea of everything.”

  Gabriel made a shrill noise that might have been a squeal, but Chris knew better than to comment on it.

  “I’m on it,” Chris said. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Okay. Aled’s going to ask Suze if she can find me work. Do you want her to look for you too?”

  “Sure, I guess?”

  “Send me your CV,” Gabriel ordered.

  Chris grimaced. “Uh. I’ll make one. Okay. Let me—let me go and make one and book a few trips to go and hunt for work. I’ll ring you back tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Love you!”

  The excited sign-off made Chris grin goofily, and he switched off the TV before padding into his room for his laptop. He’d never really made a CV. He got jobs round Nailsea by knowing people. He wouldn’t have any such advantage in Cornwall, so maybe it was time to get cracking.

  Holy hell, he’d be living close enough to see Gabriel whenever they wanted.

  His heart was beating a mile a minute as he set up job alerts and hunted for train tickets. He’d done a lot of jobs, both in and out of the army. He’d tended bars, cleaned offices, sold memberships. He’d even gotten a couple of NVQs before signing up to the army. Ryan would give him a good reference from the garage if he could find any chopshops hiring. And Cornwall was bound to be rammed with outdoors stores, right? Bike shops and sports clubs and all sorts. There’d be plenty to go round with his experience.

  He could find a little flat in the town and cycle out to the villages whenever he liked. Gabriel could hop on the bus for half an hour and jump off for a hug at the end. They didn’t have to plan every moment in advance. They could go for dinner after work. All go out together or Chris could steal Gabriel for himself for an evening. And get rid of him, too. When all that sexual energy was too much, he didn’t need to feel guilty anymore. Aled would be a stone’s throw away, not hundreds of miles. It wouldn’t derail a visit anymore, because there’d always be tomorrow.

  There’d be every tomorrow.

  “Fuck,” Chris said, and laughed to himself. “You’re in bloody love.”

  It wasn’t a revelation. It wasn’t even much of a realisation. But he said it out loud in his late mother’s bungalow, and it felt—for the first time—like he’d opened the closet door. He’d never breathed a word of his sexuality to her, terrified of her confirming that he was a freak after all, and she’d died without a clue, as far as Chris knew. She was dead and gone, and this was the first time he’d even hinted at it within these walls.

  And yet—

  She wasn’t there to hear him anymore, but a tiny part of him felt as though he’d told her anyway.

  * * * *

  “You’re kidding,” Chris said.

  The valuation agent chuckled.

  She was a middle-aged woman from the local estate agent, and Chris had asked her to come and give him a rough idea of what he might get for selling Mum’s bungalow. He’d expected her to poke around for ten minutes, give him a list of things wrong with the place, then say ninety or maybe even a hundred grand.

  Not—

  Well, not that.

  “No, Mr Wheeler. And that’s a mid-range estimate. It could easily be more if you follow some of my suggestions.”

  Chris made an embarrassing sort of gurgle. Her suggestions hadn’t even been that much. Cleaning out the gutters. Repair that frozen stopcock. Normal stuff he’d planned on doing anyway. He wasn’t exactly going to have to get a new roof to hit the figures she was quoting.

  “Think it over,” the agent said. “We’d love to take this one on. I’ll give you a call in a couple of days to discuss the particulars.”

  She showed herself out, and Chris sat down in the armchair with a heavy, boneless thunk. The paper shook in his numb hand. Noodle slunk out from under the table and leapt up onto the arm of the chair with a curious chirp.

  “Yeah,” Chris muttered. “I can’t believe it either.”

  After his chat with Gabriel, he’d figured he’d best get the bungalow valued. Just to see what he might have to work with. Just to see if he could afford a little flat or something, or if it’d be back into renting but with a nice savings buffer instead of the hand-to-mouth life he’d led since leaving the army.

  He hadn’t figured—

  “Fuck,” he muttered.

  Noodle chirped again, then slunk onto his lap and began to turn in circles.

  “We could afford something,” he told the uninterested cat. “Fuck. I could—I have money.”

  His phone started buzzing in his back pocket, but it took a couple of goes before he could put down the estate agent’s estimate. When he finally managed it, he slid the phone out to
see Gabriel’s smile flashing up at him.

  “Er. Hey.”

  “Hey!” Gabriel sounded bright and cheerful, but it bounced off Chris’ stunned thoughts. “You busy?”

  “Uh. No. Not—no.”

  There was a short pause.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” Chris said. “Just a bit shellshocked.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I had the estate agent round to value Mum’s bungalow,” Chris said.

  “Oh, no, was it bad news?”

  Chris barked a laugh. “Er. Not exactly.”

  “Good news?”

  “I was thinking, you know, maybe I could get a hundred grand or so and use it to start over in Cornwall with you guys when you get round to moving.”

  “And?”

  Chris could barely cough out the figure.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Two hundred and twenty.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah,” Chris whispered. “And that’s—that’s mid-range. She says I could get more if I just do a couple of little jobs around the place.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “And if I rent it out, she says I could get, like, a third of what the garage are paying me.”

  “Fuck,” Gabriel said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Chris confessed. “I’m not—I’ve never had any money. I have like twenty quid left until payday next week. I’ve no fucking clue. I mean—fuck, what do I do?”

  The amount was just nonsense. A couple of grand blew Chris’ mind. The idea that Aled’s cars were worth twenty grand each, at a minimum, was staggering. But two hundred and twenty thousand pounds?

  It just—it wasn’t a real number. The valuer might as well have said he was sitting on a million. It was nonsense.

  Something banged in the background, and a lightbulb came on in Chris’ head. He might not know what to do, and Gabriel didn’t come from any better stock when it came to money stuff, but they both knew someone who did.