by Alexis Hall
He went round to his own side of the Sagaris and climbed in, turning briefly to grin at Fen. “You look great.”
“Don’t go getting ideas. I just felt like it.” But Fen was blushing. And seemed pleased. “And, anyway, look at you, you tart.”
“Who me?” It was hard to sound innocent, considering he’d deliberately chosen his very tightest and clingiest T-shirt, and a leather jacket that did nothing to conceal it.
Fen gave him a totally-not-buying-that look.
“I can change? I think I’ve got a spare shirt in the boot.”
“Let’s not be hasty. I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
Alfie knew it was just dinner and a chance to talk, and that he’d had to beg and risk putting his head down a toilet even to get that. But it had this . . . this datey air. Fen had dressed up and Alfie had dressed, well, down. Which meant something. And he felt a little bit nervous, a little bit excited, and a little bit hopeful. Which he hadn’t for years. Not since he’d still been waiting to meet the right girl. His heart beating maybe maybe maybe.
Maybe this one, maybe this time.
There was this extra intimacy to driving someone somewhere. Sometimes anyway. If it was the right someone and the right somewhere. And Alfie loved his car and loved sharing it. His piece of loud, red freedom.
He turned the key in the ignition and the dashboard lit up like Christmas, all the needles twitching excitedly over the faces of the dials.
Fen hooked his index finger over the bridge of his glasses and pulled them down his nose, peering stagily over the top as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Are we going into space?”
“Cool, isn’t it?”
“Jesus.” Fen caught for the dashboard as the engine roared and the car spun light and wild as fire away from the kerb.
“Nought to sixty in three point seven seconds.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“You okay?”
A shaky sound. Then, “Yes.”
“Sorry, she’s a bit brash.”
“You’re not sorry at all, are you?”
Alfie just grinned again. Settled into driving. Even though it was South Shields, and the best he could hope for was a short stretch at fifty as they followed the cloud-reflecting sea.
“So,” Fen was barely audible over the Sagaris, “this is your . . . pussy wagon analogue? Whatever that’s called.”
“Um. Cockmobile?”
“Quickly, Robin, to the cockmobile!”
Alfie laughed and slanted a look at Fen, just in time to see the smile fading from his lips. “Okay, I should probably come clean before I—”
“Oh my God, it’s stolen.”
“What? No. And she’s not an it.”
“Sorry. To both of you. I don’t quite know why I went there.”
“You really do have a low opinion of me, don’t you?”
“No. Well.” Fen shifted in the passenger seat. “I just mean, you see a car like this in South Shields and it’s either stolen or the driver’s not from around here. But I guess . . . I guess you’re not from around here anymore.”
“Dunno about that, but I’m definitely not a crook. And I was going to say, the Sagaris isn’t all that. Not for a sports car. I took a Veyron out for a spin a couple of years ago. Thought about upgrading.”
“I have no idea what any of this means, but why didn’t you?”
Alfie shrugged. “Because I love my car. I bought her with my first bonus. It was really weird. I had the car of my dreams and nowhere to drive her.”
“Why’s it . . . she . . . a girl?” Fen asked after a moment.
“I never really thought about it. I guess it’s traditional, like ships or whatever?” He suddenly felt the prickle of Fen’s attention on the back of his hand, where it still rested lightly on the gearstick. “Besides, she’s a bit sensitive. Needs a gentle touch to get the best out of her. Guys don’t usually ask me for that.”
“Surely it depends on the guy.”
“Is that what you want?” Alfie risked another sideways glance, but Fen was resolutely staring out of the window, his reflection as wavering as the moonlight over the waves. “Someone to be gentle?”
“Sometimes, yes, when I’m in the mood for it.”
“And other times?”
“Then I want . . . something else.”
Alfie’s hand had gone white-knuckled. And his mouth was dry. Drive. Just drive. Don’t think about it.
But he was thinking about it.
About being gentle. And being . . . not gentle. With Fen.
“Alfie?”
“Uh. Yeah?”
“I know I agreed to this, but I can’t promise I won’t change my mind. And you’ll accept that, right?”
Alfie pulled into the space he’d found yesterday in front of the boarded-up building and turned off the engine. The silence, somehow, seemed even louder. He turned in his seat to look at Fen. “Course I will. I mean, I won’t like it much.”
Fen was staring at his hands, twisting the band of green wire round and round his finger.
Alfie reached out and untangled Fen’s hands. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“I don’t know.” Fen’s fingers were cold and rough, the skin flaking round the edges of his cuticles, but they rested, a moment, between Alfie’s, not quite clinging, but not pulling away either. “I just don’t know. I keep thinking I should, but I don’t. And I can’t tell if that makes me weak, or stupid, or just ridiculously horny.”
“Ridiculously horny?”
Hard to see in the dim light, but maybe Fen blushed. “Oh don’t. You have no idea.”
“I’d . . . erm . . . kind of like to.”
“Well, it’s a fantasy, isn’t it? The fucker who bullied you at school on his knees for you.”
And now it was Alfie lost in a rush of heat. Lust, with a ripple of shame. “We can skip dinner, y’know?” It was the closest he could get to, Yes, that. Let’s do that.
“And miss my night out at the Raj?” Fen shook himself free and unclipped his seat belt. “Never.”
Alfie made a really valiant attempt to be normal. “How do you know the Raj is my special date place?”
He was on the pavement, round the Sagaris, and reaching for the passenger door handle before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be helping. He took an exaggerated step back, holding up his hands like Fen had him at gunpoint, earning a look of exasperated amusement through the window. Though, actually, watching Fen slither out of the car in his very tight jeans had its compensations. Even if what he needed now was something quite different. Like another bucket of cold plant water to the face. Or elsewhere.
“Because,” Fen was saying, “this is South Shields, you’re you, and that’s the Raj.”
“You like it, right?”
“Alfie, nobody’s ever taken me.”
“God, well, we’ll get that fixed.”
Fen smirked. “Like my bathroom?”
“Oi.” Still not entirely thinking straight, Alfie landed a playful smack precisely where Fen deserved it. Right on his perfect arse.
He whirled round, pale with outrage. “What the shitting fuck was that?”
It was a good question. “Um, a joke?”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?”
He didn’t. He looked like he was furious. “Not really, no. Look, I’m sorry. It’s just, you know, it was there.”
“What was there?”
Oh dear. Now Fen had his hands on his hips. “Your arse.”
A pause. “So’s your face, it doesn’t mean I get to punch it.” Fen scraped his fingers through his hair, making it fluffy and wild and adorable. “God. I don’t even know how to process this.”
“What? Nobody’s ever . . .?”
“No, Alfie Bell, no. Normal people don’t do that.”
“Yeah, they do. It’s affectionate like.”
“Seriously? When you hang out with your dude-bros, you idly smack each other’s arses like th
e red-blooded heterosexuals you are?”
“Well, no, but when I’m out with— Shit.”
“Oh God,” Fen muttered, “you’re so fucking straight. Also sexist.”
Nobody had ever complained. Although, admittedly, he’d never dared with Kitty. And, anyway, it didn’t seem like the time for debate. “I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again, okay?”
At last, Fen nodded, and Alfie started breathing again. He’d honestly thought he’d blown it. With one careless gesture. A habit he’d as good as forgotten. Or maybe a subconscious desire to get his hands on Fen’s, well, on Fen.
They were still close enough that Alfie felt him shiver. “I feel so debased,” Fen murmured in a manner that could only be described as sultry.
Bloody hell. Alfie’s cock had spent the last five minutes doing the weirdest hokey-cokey, but now it was truly committed. He groaned helplessly. “Now you’re just giving me mixed signals.”
“I did warn you I’m very confused right now.”
“I’m not.”
Alfie pulled him close, then closer, and it turned out that Fen’s cock wasn’t confused either. They fell against each other, not quite managing anything as coordinated as kissing or touching, but it felt good, so good, the ways their bodies fit, and the ways they didn’t, the fact it was almost a struggle, but not.
“You know we’re going to be late,” Alfie managed at some point.
“Oh,” said Fen. Gasped really. His open mouth pressed to the side of Alfie’s neck. “Oh.”
“Offer stands. Get it out our systems.”
Fen squirmed, his hands pushing restlessly beneath Alfie’s jacket. “God, when did I become the kind of boy who puts out before a first date?”
“Maybe I like it.”
“I doubt it. You don’t fuck, remember?”
“That’s not . . . It’s just . . . it’s just I’m not very good at casual.”
“But aren’t you just reinforcing a heteronormative paradigm? In tying acts to intimacy. Centring sex on penetration.”
“I can’t tell if it’s hot or annoying that you talk like you’re on the internet.” Alfie gently tucked a piece of straggling hair behind Fen’s ear. “I know it doesn’t mean anything, like whether you fuck or suck or whatever, but at some point you’ve got to decide what’s special. Because otherwise nothing is.”
A smile, like a bright, crooked constellation in the shifting dark. “Take me to dinner, Alfie Bell.”
Alfie nodded. He wanted to take Fen’s hand, but he wasn’t sure if it was okay. It was probably more okay than slapping his arse, but he was confused by the date-nondateness of things. But, even if it was a date, did that make it acceptable—or normal—to hold hands? He couldn’t remember ever holding Greg’s hand, but they’d basically spent the eight months of their relationship in bed because Alfie’d had about ten years of gay sex to get out of his system and Greg had been only too happy to be the altar at which he worshipped. It was only after that they’d realised they had nothing in common, wanted completely different things, and had no reason, really, to be together. And it was only now he was starting to realise that his time with Greg had given him an excellent grounding in shagging. Absolutely none in anything like . . . boyfriending.
So he left Fen’s hand alone and led the way across the road and up the narrow staircase into the restaurant, where Mr. Ali and Amjad came rushing over to greet him.
“Alfie, Alfie, good to see you again. Your table’s all ready for you.”
There was kind of a script for this. One that hadn’t changed in all the years Alfie had been coming here.
This was the moment Mr. Ali would stop shaking his hand and ask, “And who is this beautiful . . .”
Alfie stepped awkwardly aside. There was a tiny, tiny pause that roared in his ears like the engine of the Sagaris.
“. . . gentleman?”
His mouth had gone completely dry. He croaked something unintelligible.
“Fen,” said Fen crisply.
“Welcome, Fen.” Mr. Ali took his hand and pressed it warmly between both of his. “Any friend of Alfie Bell’s.”
Alfie was quietly dying. Fen was pink. “Thank you.”
“This way, please.” With a little flourish, Mr. Ali was leading them to Alfie’s usual booth.
They faced each other in a kind of paralysed silence as they were supplied with menus, a half pint of Cobra for Alfie since he was driving, and a mango lassi—on the house—for Fen. His attempt to turn it down was completely ignored. Alfie could have told him there was no point protesting. That was part of the script too. There was always a mango lassi for Alfie’s girl. Even, apparently, if the girl was a boy.
Finally, they were alone.
“What have you done?” hissed Fen.
“N-nothing.”
“Did you say I was your date?”
“Sort of . . . maybe . . . accidentally.”
Fen pulled off his hat and put it down on the seat next to him. “Oh, Alfie, you’re messed up. You won’t let me touch you in case your father sees, but you out yourself in the middle of a curry house.”
For some reason, when Fen said it aloud, it didn’t seem that awful. Most of the time being gay, having to somehow let people know he was gay, just felt like a noise that echoed through Alfie’s head all the time, driving him a little nuts. An alarm he couldn’t stop ringing. But here he was, at his favourite place, with Fen, being Alfie, being gay, and it didn’t seem to matter. He felt himself relaxing, just a little bit, and smirked across the table.
“I’m complicated,” he said, doing his best impression of Fen, which was quite a bit camper, and more southern, than the real version.
“I suppose I deserved that.” Fen had seemed very close to laughing but he quickly grew serious again. “Um, listen Alfie. I know this isn’t exactly the first thing you say, but given our history and everything South Shields has always taken for granted about me, I need you to know I’m not actually gay.”
Alfie did not know that. “You what? But you . . . But we . . . You seemed pretty damn gay when we—”
“I like men.” Fen cut sharply over his flailing. “But I’ve never identified as gay. Ironic, isn’t it. All those years, getting the shit kicked out of me for something I’m not.”
Okay. Well. Okay. This was okay. It was unexpected, but Alfie could cope. Totally. “So you’re bi or whatever?”
“I don’t use that word either.”
“Um, what’s the word got to do with it? Somebody who fucks men and women is bisexual.”
Even without the glitter of his eyes, Alfie could tell Fen was irritated. “I do fuck both men and women, but I’m not bisexual.”
“That sounds pretty bisexual to me.”
Whatever Fen said, Alfie couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine him with a woman. Except, then, suddenly he could. Fen’s pale, supple body moving over someone else’s, softer legs wrapped around his waist, softer hands spanning his back, all that fierce strength in him harnessed, not surrendered. Shit. Shit. Shit. It was awful. And Alfie realised it didn’t matter whether it was a woman or another man. It just mattered it wasn’t him.
“Dear me,” sighed Fen, “you’ve been gay for all of five minutes and you’re already looking down on people who don’t exactly fit your categories. Bravo, Alfie Bell.”
“I’m not. I’m just trying to understand. If you’re not gay, and you’re not bi, what are you then?”
“Generically queer? I don’t care. I don’t see why it has to be important.”
Alfie stared. “How can it not be important?”
“I just don’t see why it has to be something I have to think about. The world’s an easier, kinder place for me when I’m with a woman, but I refuse to let that be my problem.”
He knew Fen was talking about principles, but Alfie couldn’t get himself unstuck from practice. Couldn’t stop thinking about Fen with someone else. “So, that’s what you’re looking for, then?”
“A wor
ld where the gender-identity of the person you love is completely irrelevant? Yes. Also, a cure for cancer, an end to war, and actually being able to get a shop-bought sandwich out the container without spilling it everywhere.”
“No. A woman.”
Fen gazed bemusedly across the table, and then smiled a little. “For God’s sake, Alfie. I’m not sure whether to be annoyed or flattered. You’ve managed to focus all the complexities of social equality and sexual identity on who I want to boink?”
“Well, it’s kind of what’s affecting me right now.”
A pause. And then, very softly, “I’m not looking for anything.”
There was no way Alfie was letting him get away with that. “You must be looking for something, or you wouldn’t have let me pick you up that night at the Rattler.”
Fen went a little pink, but when he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly harsh. “I was fucked up, Alfie. I’d broken up with David—my boyfriend—a year ago, and I just felt so completely alone.”
“Boyfriend!”
“Let it go, will you? You can’t weigh my gayness by how many men I’ve been with, and it’s the least important part of what I’m trying to tell you. Which is, if I was looking for something that night, it couldn’t have been anything good.”
Alfie plonked his hand firmly over Fen’s. Fen started at the sudden contact but didn’t reject it.
“But we found something good, anyway? Right?”
No answer. Fen was staring at Alfie’s fingers, splayed so possessively over his own.
“I don’t know how I can like you,” he said, eventually. All dreamy and confused.
“Cos everybody needs a bit of home sometimes.”
“Are you ready to order?” Mr. Ali materialised at their table, and it took every last ounce of courage Alfie had not to jerk away from Fen. However, if the man noticed they were practically holding hands, there was no outward sign it bothered him.
Fen, who seemed kind of shaken for some reason, politely asked for tikka paneer, followed by vegetable biryani with paratha.
“Fuck no.” Alfie groaned. “You’re a vegetarian.”
“I was vegan for a while, so you can congratulate yourself on a lucky escape.”