by Alexis Hall
“Thank you.”
Gingerly, he manoeuvred his half off the plate and took a bite. I should probably have warned him that toasties tend to fight back, because within seconds he was embroiled in his very own action thriller: Attack of the Sixty-Foot Cheese String. In general, people did not look good with food dangling out of their mouths. But I guess because Ilya was usually so terrifyingly immaculate, I actually found him kind of adorable just then.
“I’m sorry,” he said, blushing, and not very successfully trying to return at least some of the cheese to the bread. “That was not very dignified.”
“Dignity’s overrated.” I hopped up onto the edge of the counter to finish my sandwich.
“You’re only saying that because you don’t have any.”
I laughed. “Harsh words considering you’re in my house eating my toastie.”
“I’m sorry.” He hung his head. “I don’t cope very well with messy things.”
Urgh. Having Bellerose—having Ilya—apologise to me was just weird. Maybe I was more masochistic than I thought, but I’d always secretly enjoyed his sharpness. “Then this is really not the supper dish for you.”
“I still appreciate your sharing it.”
“My mum used to make them. I don’t remember all that well because I was so young, but I can remember sneaking downstairs when my dad was sleeping. How we knew the creak in every stair. And how magical it felt, even on bad days, to have cheese toasties at midnight.”
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Were there are a lot of bad days for you when you were growing up?”
“Towards the end, yes. But then we left.” I swung my feet idly and peeled a piece of crust away from the bread. “And we took our toasties with us.”
“Are they still magical to you?”
They reminded me of Mum. Her strength. “Hell yes they are.”
When we were done eating, Ilya wanted to do the washing up, but I wouldn’t let him—not least because he would have had to excavate the sink before the task could even be attempted—and then we trooped past Innisfree and Ellery, who were smoking a joint, and up to my loft. Which was looking even more chaotic than usual since, in my morning panic, I had apparently taken out every item of clothing I owned from whatever receptacle that held it, be it suitcase, drawer, laundry basket, or hanging rail, and cast it across the floor.
“Um.” I picked up a sock, as if that was going to make any difference at all. “Sorry. You know, you can leave if you want to.”
Ilya gave me one of his rare smiles. “You did warn me. And I think I’ll survive.”
“But you said you didn’t like mess.”
“My own.”
“You’re not a mess, Ilya.” I dug out my hippo pyjamas and began complicatedly getting into them, trying not to be too naked at any point during the process. I mean, I’d invited him back for company and support. Not to bear witness to my wang. “You’re just in a temporary state of reorganisation.”
Another faint, fleeting smile. And, oh God help me, he was taking his clothes off, and with much less awkwardness than I had. I tried not to look but, I mean, I’m only human. I looked. Yep, he was perfect. Gold and smooth and exquisite, in that impossibly lean and muscular way that was the current fashion for male bodies. Seriously, I could have used the grooves of his abs as an inkwell. And isn’t that quite the image?
“You know you’re stunning, right?” I said.
He shrugged. “I’m glad to please.”
Tossing T-shirts and jeans and jumpers off the mattress, I de-rumpled my duvet and climbed under it. Ilya joined me a moment or two later, bringing very welcome heat, and the clean scent of his skin.
“And you’re sure,” he whispered, “this is still all right?”
“It would be a shitty time to decide it wasn’t.” I retrieved my Rainbow Dash pillow and plumped it up. “Honestly, though, it’s good. I enjoy having sleep company.”
“Would you like to have sex?”
Okay, so I hadn’t seen that coming. “Pardon me?”
He rolled onto his side, all his absurd loveliness suddenly far too close. “I have some facility at it.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but are you even attracted to me that way?”
“I’m not attracted to anyone that way. But you’ve had a difficult day and seem to have a very sensuous nature, so I thought you might appreciate a sexual release.”
He wasn’t wrong. Under other circumstances, I would definitely have been indulging in a consolation wank. However…“That’s really nice of you,” I said carefully, “except I’m kind of only into sleeping with people who want to sleep with me.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to sleep with you.”
“And who would also get something out of it.”
“I would get something out of it.” It was too dark to read his expression, but he sounded sad. Which wasn’t exactly a turn-on for me. “I would dearly love to make you feel good, Arden.”
“I…uh.” Help, I had no idea how to respond.
My initial instinct was that this was a Fibonacci Sequence of a bad idea, an ever-expanding spiral of infinite nope for both of us. But I didn’t want to just dismiss him either. I’d learned from George that sex came in many colours—even if Ilya wasn’t interested in fucking the way I was, that didn’t mean I got to second-guess his choices. Which was the other thing. I had to believe these were his choices. That who he was, and what he wanted, existed separately from Lancaster Steyne—something Caspian had never been able to accept for himself. Or even accept from me.
And yet Ilya wasn’t Caspian. I didn’t know him well enough to understand what would help him and what would hurt him—and while it wasn’t on me to make those calls on his behalf, I got to make them for me. I couldn’t deny there was a kinky appeal in the idea of being sexually indulged by a gorgeous man solely committed to my pleasure, but given we’d both been semi-recently dumped by Caspian, there was no guarantee the whole business wouldn’t devolve into a two-way pity-fuck of woe and desperation.
Which…just. No.
Maybe I’d keep it for a fantasy—the sort of fantasy where I’d be wearing riding boots, and nobody was real or suffering or alone.
“Would you take it the wrong way,” I asked, “if I turned you down?”
“What would be taking it the wrong way?”
“Thinking I didn’t like you. Or that you weren’t insanely attractive and desirable.”
“I’m not interested in whether you like me or find me attractive.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
He turned onto his back again, an arm coming up to deepen the shadows across his face. “I expressed that badly.”
“You think?”
“It’s simply that I prefer to be useful.”
We fell silent. I wasn’t sure there was much else to say. But apparently my mouth had other ideas. “You know, there are people out there who’ll get who you are and what you’re into.”
“I was satisfied being Caspian’s assistant.”
“And you were brilliant at it. But you don’t have to, like, sublimate yourself into your job. I mean, obviously you should also get a job at some point. Jobs are good. But you can have more.”
I felt him shift a little restlessly beside me. “I’m not sure where this is going.”
“You deserve to be with someone who wants all of you.”
“Oh.” He let out a soft breath. “You’re talking about a relationship. I think you’re trying to be kind, but love and romance mean very little to me.”
“Only because Lancaster Steyne treated you like a toy and Caspian couldn’t cope with what you represented, so he rejected everything you offered him.”
“On the contrary, my feelings on this matter precede both Caspian and Mr. Steyne. And”—his tone sharpened—“you have profoundly mischaracterised my relationship with Caspian.”
“How?” I asked. “You care about him and he’s never acknowledged it.”
“What does
that matter? He let me stay with him anyway. He gave me a job to help me find a sense of purpose. And, I suspect, to ensure I would always be able to provide for myself in future. So that I would never be a whore or…a toy again.”
How easy it was, when you were hurt, to lose track of the goodness of people. The truth was, I’d seen Caspian act in anger and fear and pain, but I’d never seen him be selfish. And now I was ashamed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have judged your relationship.”
“It’s all right. I know you mean well.” Ilya turned his face into the crook of his elbow—I think he might have been crying again. “But working for Caspian has been invaluable to me. Though professionally speaking, it will not be difficult to f-find another position.”
“Well, that’s good,” I responded way too heartily. The problem was, I really wanted to comfort him, but I had no idea how to go about it. That is, I knew how to be generically consoling but not how to be specifically consoling to Ilya.
He didn’t reply and I didn’t blame him. “Well, that’s good” had been a pretty rubbish thing to say.
I tried again. “If love doesn’t mean much to you, do you mind if I ask what does?”
“Hmm?” I must have lost him a little to his grief.
“What does mean something to you? What are you looking for?”
“What I’m looking for…” he repeated, as if he’d never encountered those words in that order before. And then, rather dreamily, “What I’m looking for is to be owned.”
“And is there anything I can do for you now that would feel a little bit like that?”
I really didn’t think he would answer. It was a wildly intimate thing to ask, and even vulnerable, Ilya was one of the most put-together people I’d ever met, the confidences he permitted himself to share as self-contained as hard-boiled sweets.
“Yes. You could hold me…” His voice caught, then steadied. “You could hold me like you need me.”
I was so relieved not to be useless to him that I probably got far too excited. “Oh my God, I can totally do that.”
“You shouldn’t feel you have to.”
“Are you kidding me? This is right in my wheelhouse—even though, now I think about it, I don’t actually know what a wheelhouse is, and since I’m not a wheel, then maybe it would be overall a bad thing if I was put in one.”
“I think it’s to do with the steering of a ship.”
“Point is, I’m super needy. Roll over.”
He rolled over with the kind of instinctive obedience that eluded me even in my subbiest moments, and then I hustled up behind him like I was the biggest spoon in the goddamn universe. I pretty much glued us together, shoving my ever-chilly feet between his knees, and pressing my face to the gorgeous silky planes of his back.
Finally, I inveigled an arm over him and used that to pull him in even tighter. “How’s this?”
“Surprisingly effective.” In that moment, he sounded both more like Bellerose and more like Ilya—an unexpected combination of sharp and soft that reminded me of the horse chestnuts I used to collect in autumn. After all, they too had smooth and secret hearts.
Remembering the way Caspian had touched me sometimes, and how much I’d loved feeling possessed by him, I lifted my head and dragged my teeth lightly against the nape of Ilya’s neck. He responded with a deep, blissed-out shudder. And within a matter of minutes, was fast asleep.
It took me a little longer to drop off, mainly because I wasn’t used to the position, but the events of the day, general exhaustion, and the luxurious warmth of Ilya slumbering trustfully in my arms did the job in the end. He was gone, of course, when my alarm went off next morning, and his phone just rang and rang when I dialled his number—which I did, a bunch of times. Honestly, it was probably for the best he didn’t have voicemail. God knows what I might have said.
In any case, a couple of days later, I came home to find a parcel waiting for me, hand-delivered, and wrapped with terrifying precision. No note, but inside was a long rainbow scarf, knitted from wool so soft it was like having a cloud wrapped round my neck. Ilya still didn’t answer when I called him, but somehow I knew he was okay.
Chapter 15
Between finishing my article, editing the living fuck out of it, and worrying about Ilya, I was hoping Nathaniel would think better of inviting me to dinner. I mean, I got why he’d done it in the moment—it was a textbook power move. But actually going through with it just seemed pissy. I was essentially out of his life now. He’d won. He had Caspian. I didn’t. And so there was no need for us all to get together and pretend we were friends. Maybe he needed the reassurance of it—my love stripped, chained, and forced to wear a mask—but he must have known how much that would hurt me. Of course, he had no reason to care about my feelings. But as much as I wasn’t his biggest fan, he’d never struck me as intentionally cruel. Anyway, tl;dr and fml: Nathaniel did not think better of inviting me to dinner.
Said invitation came in the form of an email that was better written and better pitched than any article I’d ever put together, and cc-ed to Caspian, so I couldn’t say no. I said yes, and there followed a low-key excruciating exchange in which we had to agree to a date, and Nathaniel had to tell me where he lived, and I had to let him know about any dietary requirements I might have and blah blah blah. Basically, it was kind of like being capitally punished in the seventeenth century, and then having to have a polite chat with the judge about whether you were available to die on Monday and if you were allergic to hemp. And no, I hadn’t lost all sense of proportion.
In any case, I did what I usually did when I was having a crisis—which was Skype Nik in Boston, and panic.
“…and now,” I finished, throwing myself on the bed so dramatically I nearly kicked the laptop onto the floor, “I have to go to dinner with the bastards. And Nathaniel’s going to be smug and perfect and use the right fork, and Caspian’s going to be all nothing nothing nothing nothing fuck with my head nothing nothing. What am I going to doooo?”
Nik idled back and forth in his wheelchair as he pondered. “You’re going to have to kill yourself. It’s the only way.”
“Someday you’ll say that to me, and I actually will, and then you’ll be all sorry and sad and oops, I shouldn’t have been sarcastic.”
“Oh, come on, Ardy. Just tell them no.”
“I can’t. I’ve already said yes.”
He did this thing that was half sigh, half growl. “You know that’s not how consent works.”
“Does that apply to dinner parties?”
“It applies to everything. You taught me that, you daffy twit.”
I rolled about in helpless dismay. “Why is past me so wise when present me is a hot mess?”
“No, no,” said Nik reassuringly, “past you was a hot mess too. It’s just you very occasionally say sensible things and it’s so shocking I always remember them.”
I made pathetic noises.
“Seriously.” He folded his arms. “Tell them to fuck off. One broke your heart, the other is clearly a wanker.”
“Yes, but if I don’t go, they’ll know I think that.”
“And we care what they think, why?”
“Because…because they’ll win if I have emotions.”
There was a pause.
“Okay,” said Nik. “You know those sensible things you sometimes say? That wasn’t one of them.”
I made more pathetic noises.
Nik also made noises. They sounded frustrated. “I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be doing here. Am I supposed to talking you out of this or talking you into it?”
“Neither. I’m going. I just want…y’know.”
“Ahhhh. Is this a feelings thing?”
I sat up and gazed adoringly at the camera. “You noticed. You’ve totally grown as a person.”
“All right. Your feelings are valid and I support them, even though there are simple things you could do to make yourself feel better and you’re refusing to do them.”
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“Actually, talking to you is the thing I’m doing to make me feel better. And it’s working because you’re great.”
He looked put-upon. “Okay. Talk about your feelings. I’m here.”
“No, no.” I crossed my legs and cosied up to the laptop. “I’m done now. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“How’s the physio?”
“Fine.”
“Is it, like, y’know. Helping and stuff?”
He gave a sort of half shrug. “I guess. A bit.”
“That’s good.” I gave him a little smile. “I mean, this stuff takes a while, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re still keeping up with your nerdy MIT crowd who are way less cool than me?”
“Kind of.” Another shrug. “They visit and we play games and talk about all the shit they’re doing that I’m not.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, Nik. You’re, like, genius-level smart. A year or so isn’t going to make any difference in the long run.”
“Maybe. But as Keynes put it, in the long run we’re all dead.”
“Wow. That’s bleak.”
“Sorry. It’s just coming up to the holidays and they’re all flying home and I’m, obviously, y’know, not. And I’d be on my own anyway, what with my parents being dicks and Poppy being a film star, but it feels way worse when you can’t walk.”
Honestly, I should have thought of this without him having to tell me. I was a shitty friend. “I’ll come,” I squeaked.
“You’re going to come to Boston? On your own. In winter. To be with your friend who can’t do anything.”
“No, I’m going to come to Boston on my own in winter to be with my friend who is you.”
His mouth did something twitchy—like it wanted to smile but wasn’t quite ready. “Ardy, you once got lost in a large Tesco’s.”
“Yeah, but I’m grown up now. And you can’t Google Maps a supermarket.”
“Look, this is really sweet of you. But you’ll probably die. And you know you can’t leave your family at Christmas.”
“They’ll cope.”
“I’ll cope.”
“Not the point. I’m coming and you can’t stop me.” I leapt decisively off the bed. “Now I have to go because I’ve got to buy a ticket to Boston and shoot myself before dinner tomorrow.”