by Alexis Hall
“God,” he muttered. “Fen.”
Fen’s eyelashes flickered in answer. Sweat gleamed on his brow and his upper lip, made the hair stick to his neck and shoulders like curls of gilt on marble. He was flushed, flushed all over, as if he was some fresh-made creature from a world of silk and fire.
“You’re . . . so . . . beautiful like.”
Fuck, what was he doing, what was he saying?
But then Fen stiffened, shuddered, and came with a shattered cry that sounded as close to despair as it did to pleasure. He fell back against the pillows, breathless, eyes still pressed tightly closed in stark contrast to the sudden slackness of his body.
Alfie, thrown into uncertainty again, hastily released his wrists and rolled away, landing on his back at Fen’s side.
Fen was still shaking, his hands clenched and abandoned on the pillow where Alfie had left them.
The silence went on forever, and Alfie wasn’t sure what to do about it. He tried to ignore the fact his cock was bouncing in the air like a commuter trying to hail a taxi through rush-hour traffic.
“Uh, look.” When Fen opened a tiny sliver of one eye, Alfie pointed to the twin silver-white smears that crossed their bodies. “Matching.”
Fen’s eye closed again.
He tried desperately to think of what to say. But his blood was too busy carrying oxygen away from his brain. “Like that jewellery with the white silhouettes. My mam used to have one.”
The slap of skin on skin resounded through the room as Fen’s hand crashed onto his own chest and began to scrub ineffectively at the mess there.
Shut up, Alfie. Shut up, right now. “I think it was a brooch.”
Fen mumbled something.
“Eh?”
“Cameo.” His head half turned in Alfie’s direction, his eyes easing reluctantly open. His expression was blank, his eyes reflected nothing, and he sounded annoyed.
“What?”
“It’s called cameo. It’s a form of carving.”
“Oh right.” There was another endless silence. “Thanks.”
Slowly, so slowly that Alfie barely saw the movement, Fen’s body curled in on itself like wilting petals.
“Are you . . . Was that . . . Is everything . . . okay?”
No answer.
Alfie had no idea what he was supposed to do now. He was getting the sense things had gone badly wrong, but he couldn’t figure out exactly where. It had seemed fine, better than fine, a lot better than fine, when they’d been touching. So he reached out a tentative hand and brushed it over Fen’s pale, shivering shoulder. Gooseflesh rose immediately to greet him, and he felt the tension ease from the muscle.
He shuffled a little closer over the wrinkled sheets, and to his surprise, Fen twisted round, tossed his glasses aside, and rolled straight into his arms. Alfie wrapped him up and pulled him close, fitting their bodies into a new togetherness. Fen’s head found a place to nestle against Alfie’s neck, and one of his hands curved possessively over Alfie’s upper arm, his fingers sliding over the spirals of ink.
Alfie’s erection, which had flagged a bit during the cameo business, came bouncing eagerly back. He winced. “Sorry, mate.” He shoved a hand between their bodies and tried to stop his cock pushing into Fen like it was hinting. “Just ignore it.”
Fen pulled back just a little, enough to raise his head again. Without glasses, his face looked different, younger, his eyes exposed and vulnerable. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Well, it was fine. What we did before. It was so good. I don’t need—” But Alfie had absolutely no chance of finishing that sentence because, suddenly, there was a hand on him, and all his words vanished into a gasp.
Fen’s touch was rough, almost too rough, but Alfie arched into it anyway, wanting it, wanting those long, merciless fingers, the rasp of dry skin against tender. It was like he could feel all the deep furrows of Fen’s palm pressed into him like a brand. Like a new tattoo.
He meant to say, You don’t have to do this, but he couldn’t catch his breath. His world was spiralling into Fen’s hand. Into the long, sure strokes that dragged him to the precipice of ecstasy and pulled him back again.
It made him ache. But wonderfully.
Fen was watching him, expressionless, his eyes burning. Though when he spoke, his voice was far from steady. “You want me.”
It wasn’t quite a question, but Alfie nodded.
Fen’s hand tightened. “Say it.”
Alfie kind of thought the fact they were in bed together, and he was frantically thrusting into the tight channel of Fen’s fist, had given the game away there. But he could barely keep a thought in his head, let alone construct an entire sentence.
Fen pulled back, and Alfie heard himself make a sound that was almost a whimper, his body stilled with the pure shock of rejection.
“Say it,” whispered Fen a little desperately. “Tell me how much you want me.”
Alfie’s mouth had gone completely dry, but he managed to scratch out the basic idea. “I want you. Please, Fen. Touch me.”
He was immediately rewarded by a touch so sweet it made him groan shamelessly for more. And Fen gave him more until he came so hard it made his ears ring, stars the colour of Fen’s eyes dancing in the sudden darkness of his pleasure. He fell stickily against Fen, too blissfully spent to care much about anything just then, including the state of the sheets.
Fen was still and silent again, but not pulling away. Alfie didn’t know what to say again, but he was full of questions. He wanted to know about the man who lay in his arms. But he didn’t dare. Instead he watched, through half-closed eyes, as the man slowly—miraculously—relaxed. His breathing grew deep and steady. He slept.
Not everyone Alfie had casually sexed had left immediately afterwards. A few of them had stayed the night. But this felt different. It felt trusting, in a way nothing had for quite a while. He knew it was creepy to stare while Fen was sleeping, but there was something very . . . very enchanting about him just then, curled up against him like a pale comma in the half-light. He looked younger and gentler and, in a strange way, less pretty, the irregularities of his features pronounced. He was all points and planes, sharp bones and angles, a fairy creature stripped of glamour. And he had the longest lashes Alfie had ever seen. He wanted to touch them. To feel their softness, their tiny, spindle-needle points. He could still remember the faint taste of salt from when they had brushed against his lips.
He reached down and carefully drew the duvet over them both—well, mainly over Fen, who was so thin he looked like he needed all the warmth he could get. His body was such a collection of contradictions. Alfie didn’t know how he could be so skinny and so inviting at the same time. But then that was hardly Fen’s only mystery.
He eased a stray lock of hair away from where it had tangled over Fen’s eyes. Fussing. He was fussing over a sleeping stranger. But there was this sense of familiarity about him that was probably more about Alfie being back here than Fen himself. It made him sort of lonely for a past that had always maybe been a lie.
He must have moved or jostled him, because Fen startled into wakefulness. He gave a distressed little murmur—the sort of sound you made when you weren’t sure where you were—and half pulled away. “Oh God, I . . . I . . .”
“’S’okay.” Alfie drew him back down. Tried to soothe him with long strokes to all that lovely skin, rough and smooth and tender like Fen himself.
“I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“’S’okay,” said Alfie again. “I’ve got you.”
Fen snuffled, almost laughing maybe, and vanished under the covers, his very cold toes nudging their way between Alfie’s knees. His fingers swirled idly across Alfie’s arm and chest, crossing back and forth over the lines of his tattoo, before coming to rest over his heart.
After a moment, he asked, “Are you okay?”
It was the first time Fen had shown him anything that wasn’t sex or anger. Alfie was so dazzled by the atte
ntion—by the unexpectedness and the sweetness of it—that he blurted out the truth. “Dunno. It’s weird being back with everybody knowing . . . knowing I’m, y’know, gay. And realising I can’t ever go back. To them or to me or to anything.” He shut his mouth with a snap. It was definitely long past time to stop saying things. “Just ignore me. I’m not making sense.”
“Saudade.”
“You what?”
“It’s the name of that feeling.”
“Are you sure? Because it sounds like one of those posh cabbages.”
Fen turned his face into Alfie’s shoulder, stifling a sound that was almost . . . no, definitely a giggle. “It’s Portuguese. It’s the intense longing for a place or a person or a time you know is probably gone forever.”
“Like nostalgia?”
“Nostalgia’s more sentimental, I think? Missing past happiness. Saudade can encompass a yearning for things that have never been.”
Alfie preferred to think of himself as a simple man. He liked his emotions, when he had to have them, to be unambiguous: anger, protectiveness, love, desire. But he got this. Found it surprisingly comforting to know there was a name for this restless, needy ache.
Fen seemed to have dozed off again while he was thinking. That was okay. He didn’t really want to talk, but he liked having a body tucked up next to him. Especially when the body in question was gorgeous and naked, and smelled of fresh sex, and you, and something sweet and slightly dusty. Like flowers. Maybe Fen really was magical. And Alfie would wake up in the morning with fairy dust on his eyelids, and there’d be nothing left of Fen but petals and seafoam.
He drew him in a little closer, not wanting to let him slip away just yet. Obviously Fen wasn’t going to vanish storybook-style, but he was still going to leave in the morning, and so was Alfie. That was kind of sad, really. It made him wonder what life could have been like if he’d stayed in South Shields. Met a nice boy and settled down. Well, maybe not a nice boy. Someone like Fen, who was wicked and sexy and fearless, and about as far from nice as you could imagine.
No point thinking about it really. Building sandcastles in his head. Except he sort of was, holding a stranger in his arms, as he drifted slowly off to sleep.
3
An instinct jarred Alfie awake again later. He still was under the covers, but there was only empty space beside him. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it was. He sat up, groped for the lamp on the nightstand, and flicked it on. “Fen?”
Fen, still naked from the waist up, whirled away from the door like a thief in, well, the night.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving. What do you think I’m doing?”
“Yes, but . . . why?”
Shit, he sounded pathetic. This was what happened after a hookup. One of you left. Except this hadn’t felt like a hookup. At least not to Alfie. And he couldn’t believe that was all it had been to Fen either, not after the way he’d trembled and moaned in Alfie’s arms, and clung to him afterwards. Fallen asleep next to him. Told him weird words for the way he was feeling.
Fen pulled on his jumper, rolling the sleeves midway up his forearms, exposing those gorgeous, supple wrists and—oh no—a ring of bruises that looked like the imprint of Alfie’s fingers.
“Fuck, I hurt you.”
Fen shrugged. “I wanted it. At the time.”
“Don’t go.” Alfie ran his hands through his hair. “Can we talk?”
“Talk.” Fen’s lip curled and, just like that, they were back at the Rattler. Two strangers, one of them angry.
“Well, why not? You might like me, you know, if you gave me a chance.”
Fen laughed. Actually laughed. Except he didn’t sound the slightest bit happy. “You . . . you really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Well, we’ve only just met.”
“Jesus Christ.” Fen’s hands curled into tight fists. “Look at me, you fucking moron. Look. At. Me.”
Alfie looked. “I don’t think—” And, just like that, memory snapped into place like a misset bone. A thin, yellow-haired boy. Weird, friendless, and stubborn. “James? James O’Donaghue?” He felt kind of dazed and sick. Suddenly things were making sense. Some things anyway. Others weren’t. Actually, no, nothing made sense. “Wait, you told me your name was Fen. What the fuck?”
“It is Fen.”
“But . . . at school . . .”
“Yeah, you don’t think I had enough shit to deal with already without everybody knowing my parents called me Fenimore?”
It was completely the wrong reaction and he didn’t mean to do it, but somehow, Alfie laughed. Well, it was funny. Sort of. Fenimore. Who called their kid Fenimore?
Fen—Fenimore—glared. “Oh fuck you.”
“Yeah, I think you already did.”
It was a reaction born of confusion and defensiveness, but Alfie hadn’t meant it to sound quite so harsh. And he was horrified when Fen sort of crumpled to his knees on the floor.
“Don’t remind me.”
“Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad. It was . . . it was great. But I don’t see why you didn’t just tell me. I’d still have wanted you.”
“How generous.” Fen glared at him through the falling strands of his hair, and Alfie remembered how soft it had felt, soft and a little bit sharp.
“Howay,” he said, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did. It didn’t even fucking occur to you that I might not want you.”
“You seemed pretty into me earlier.”
Fen’s expression would have made the North Sea look warm and welcoming just then. “Yes, Alfie Bell, I was indeed pretty into the school bully demonstrating what a good little cocksucker he’s grown into.”
It was like a knee in the ’nads. Next thing he knew, he was out of bed, had Fen by the collar of his jumper, and was yanking him to his feet, staring down into those furious, too-familiar eyes.
“Going to hit me now?” Fen was trembling, but the words were a taunt. Another blow. “Tell me how you’re not like me. How you’re not one of those queers.”
“No . . . I . . .” Shit. What was he doing? He swallowed. Let go of Fen. Clenched his hands helplessly.
But Fen didn’t give an inch. Just stood there, beautiful and as breakable as moon snail shells. He ran his hands through his already wild hair. “God, this was fucked up.”
What was especially fucked up was that they were having a conversation like this and Alfie was stark bollock naked. He retreated to the bed, dragged the sheet off it, and wrapped it round his waist.
“Look,” he said, as calmly as he could, “I get that we weren’t exactly friends back then, but—”
“You made my life a living hell.”
“I was a kid. It was just a bit of fun.”
“A bit of fun? Are you a fucking sociopath?” Fen wrapped his arms tightly around his own body. “Every day. For six years.”
Alfie made a frustrated gesture, nearly losing the sheet. “It wasn’t just me.”
“That’s the best justification you can find? God, you’re pathetic.”
There was a long silence. Fen was shaking slightly. If he squinted, Alfie could just about see James O’Donaghue in him. So fragile and defiant.
“Look,” he tried. “I’m sorry, okay? I should have said that first, but you should have told me.”
Fen said nothing. He didn’t need to. The look on his face was enough.
“Okay, forget that. I’m sorry. Just sorry. But it was a long time ago. I’m not the same person.”
“Oh, right, yes. Because you’re gay now and you feel all sad about it.”
Alfie’s mouth dropped open. He knew his sense of betrayal was probably out of proportion. But it was like he’d shown his belly in a moment of weakness and Fen had responded by ripping his guts out.
Before he could muster any sort of answer, Fen had torn right on. “You think you have it rough? Try growing up queer in a place like this.”
“I did g
row up gay. I just didn’t know it like.”
“Well, it didn’t stop you making my life miserable.”
Alfie was still feeling too unexpectedly wounded to be capable of controlling what came out of his mouth. “Yeah, but you didn’t exactly help yourself either.”
Silence. Again.
“What,” asked Fen very quietly, “the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, you could have kept your head down. You didn’t have to make a big deal about it.”
Fen’s hand came up, trembled, and then dropped. In some ways Alfie might have preferred it if Fen had tried to hit him—he knew how to deal with that kind of thing—but Fen never had. Not once. He had struggled and protested but never pleaded. Never struck back. And there it was in those gorgeous, sea-glass eyes: all the old hurt, the helpless anger, and the same stubborn pride. Only Fen was a man now, strong and beautiful, and as lost to Alfie as he had ever been.
“Look, I’m—”
Fen darted for the door and pulled it open, making Alfie wince in the sticky yellow light that flooded in from the hallway. He paused, hand on the handle, half-turned away. “You’re wrong, Alfie Bell. You haven’t changed. Maybe you suck cock these days, but you’re still a coward and a bully, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”
And then Fen was gone.
For a long time after, Alfie just stood there in the awful quiet, clutching his sheet and staring at the fire notice pinned to the back of the door. He thought of getting dressed and going after Fen, but how would he find him? What would he say? He’d already tried to apologise, and Fen had been awful. Although admittedly it hadn’t been one of Alfie’s better apologies. He’d been too startled.
Not really knowing what else to do, he got back into bed. It was cold again, but it smelled like sex. Like Fen. His brain felt weird. As if there was a gap in the middle of it and he couldn’t get the edges to join up straight again. Fen. James O’Donaghue. Now. Then. And Alfie: who he used to be, who he was, and who Fen thought he was—which was some kind of monster.