by Alexis Hall
So he babbled instead. “Lord of the Rings is my brother’s favourite book, so my dad recorded the whole thing off the radio, and put it on tapes, and Billy played them so much they went all crackly and wrecked, so he got them for Christmas one year.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Are you kidding me? I hated it. I was fucking terrified. There’s some seriously fucked-up shit in that book. Not like horror-movie scary but in this deep-inside, lingering kind of way, you know?”
Fen twisted in his seat, tucking a knee under him so he could see Alfie better. “It’s meant to be a myth cycle, so it makes sense that it would inspire quite primal reactions.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“Sorry.”
“Gollum really used to freak me out.” Alfie stared through the windscreen at the wooden gate and the furrowed field that lay beyond, hazy in the buttery moonlight. “And Billy used to put his hand under the cold tap and sneak into my room and grab my feet, and go, ‘Preciousss.’ Bloody hilarious. Dad gave him what for in the end.”
That was when Alfie suddenly remembered his dad was barely his dad anymore, that they were as good as strangers because of the ways neither of them could change, so there were just these memories. He rested his head on the steering wheel. Breathed in and out, in and out. He could do that. Keep breathing.
Fen’s hand came softly down on his back, so warm. Stroked him up and down to the rhythm of his breathing. “What is it?”
Alfie sat up. Put himself back together. “Nothing.”
He was afraid Fen would push him and it would all come spooling out of him: This pointless tangle of hurt and loss and bewilderment. This grief for someone he never was, and something he never had. And somehow that would be worse, because he didn’t know how he was supposed to deal with it. But Fen only said, “Tell me when you’re ready,” unclipped his seat belt, and next thing Alfie knew, he had flung a leg over the gearbox and was making a pretty impressive attempt to wriggle over to Alfie’s side of the car. He was pretty flexible for a man who had just eaten two Big Macs in a row and soon landed, inelegantly but otherwise successfully, in Alfie’s lap.
That was better.
Fen let out a careful breath. “I think I just nearly surrendered my virtue to your gearstick.”
“What virtue?” Alfie tried to get his arms round him, but it really was almost impossible to move.
“Don’t get sassy with me, Alfie Bell.”
Which made him smile a bit, just as Fen kissed him. Light at first, just the drag of his mouth over Alfie’s, but then Alfie arched up and took him deeper, and it quickly got all messy, a damp tangle of tongues and breath, full of Fen’s frantic little moans.
It shouldn’t have been this exciting: two grown men who’d already fucked going at it like teenagers in the driver’s seat of a car, unreachable, fully covered erections knocking roughly against each other, the back of Alfie’s hand catching on the indicator light, and Fen arching into the horn every time Alfie did something he liked. Which, apparently, was most things.
Except it was. It was exciting in all the ways it had never been before, like he was finally getting something, or understanding something, that a bunch of other people had already found, maybe in this exact same spot.
He’d had no idea there was this much kissing in the world. That you could kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and not run out of ways to kiss. Like a Fibonacci sequence of touching, increasing always in complexity, but never breaking the boundary of their two joined mouths.
Somewhere, out there in the dark, was the echo of himself. If only he could go back in time. You’ll find it, he’d say, you’ll get it.
But the years behind him felt like a desert. So perhaps it was better the boy he used to be didn’t know what Alfie knew now. That chance and random circumstance would bring him here, and to a gift, infinitely precious, from a man who had no reason to give him anything.
A glare of orange light as a car raced past, tooting at them—Get a room, perhaps, or even Good on you, mate.
He managed to yank open Fen’s jeans. Shove a hand inside, find his cock. Fen moaned into his mouth and flailed, hitting the horn again, and the windscreen wipers too. And Alfie crushed him against the steering wheel, kissing him, working him, until he cried out helplessly and came in an uncontrolled rush. Kind of everywhere.
Breathless, practically boneless, Fen fell against Alfie’s shoulder, and Alfie sort of nuzzled him clumsily with his chin and jaw because it was the only way he could get to touch him.
“God. Alfie. That nearly went in my eye.”
“Then that’s probably the only place it didn’t go.” Alfie kissed the edge of Fen’s ear and, when he turned his head, his kiss-swollen mouth again. “I think you’ve got some in your hair.”
“I’m too shagged to care.”
“And maybe in your eyebrow.”
It took them a while to untangle, and when they were ready to try it proved logistically challenging. In the end, Alfie managed to hit the door release with his knee, and Fen slithered out onto the road, urgently fastening his jeans and making a generally unconvincing attempt to look respectable as he limped back round to the passenger side. He was practically asleep by the time they pulled up outside Pansies again. He looked so peaceful, and at the same time, so debauched. A well-fucked angel. And Alfie wanted to keep him.
But, instead, he nudged him. “We’re home.”
“Oh.” Fen stirred, then started. Smiled toothily at Alfie, hopelessly goofy. “Thank you. I had the best day.”
“Me too.”
A pause. “Are you sleeping over?”
Alfie’s heart gave a happy bounce. “Can I? You’re not sick of me like?”
“It’ll be fine.” Fen smirked. “We’ll both be unconscious.”
“Wow, you really know how to take the sting out of a compliment.”
“I didn’t mean it. Please stay. If you want to.”
“Of course I do.”
“Just don’t judge the state of my house, okay?”
Alfie leaned over, nearly gutting himself with his seat belt, and brushed his lips against Fen’s cheek. “I really don’t care about that.”
“Yes. Well.” Fen’s hands shifted idly, fingers seeking the green band he always wore. “I’m starting to think . . . I might, actually.”
Alfie dropped him off outside Pansies, intending to find a parking space where he could leave the Sagaris and then get back as quickly as possible. But he still ended up watching Fen as he headed for the side door. He seemed different somehow—lighter, maybe. There’d always been a bit of the dancer about him, but Alfie was more familiar with his restlessness than his grace, the way he’d sometimes hold himself like he wanted to disappear. This was a little glimpse of who Fen truly was—who he was supposed to be, when he wasn’t grieving and stuck in South Shields—and, of course, he was walking away.
Alfie shook it off. Found a quiet side street. And took a minute to compose an email to HR, explaining that something personal had come up, and he was taking annual leave. Since J.D. Jarndyce was old-school hard core and fired twenty percent of his workforce on an annual basis just to keep people on their toes, he knew he was basically placing himself right at the top of the culling list. But a quick inventory of available fucks confirmed that Alfie was fresh out. He’d been nothing but his job for way too long, and the possibility of losing it didn’t feel so much like a sacrifice as release.
His head was a little spinny after, not exactly in a bad way, but it was disorientating. Like he’d lost track of the edges of his world. Or maybe they hadn’t changed at all, so he was just going to run smack bang into them anyway.
Normally this would be when he called Greg. But something stopped him, phone in hand. Even if he knew how to explain, he wasn’t sure Greg would get it. As far as Greg was concerned, a romantic gesture was bringing fancy condoms. Or maybe he was being unfair. It was sometimes hard to tell with Greg what was bravado and what wasn’t.
The best and noblest of stupid, Kitty returned.
He’d meant to say, Falling for someone in the middle of a really complicated life-situation thing, but he liked the answer he’d been given too much to risk clarifying his problem.
On the way back to the shop, his phone buzzed again. PS have met terribly charming fellow with a nonidentifiable job. Think he must be a shpy.
Ill-advisedly grinning, walking, and texting he sent, Or maybe he just does something really boring. And got back a selfie of Kitty’s sad pout.
16
Fen’s alarm went off at four, which was painful even though Alfie was used to banker hours. The other thing that was painful was his back because Fen’s futon mattress was, frankly, fucking awful. He rolled over, found Fen, who was deliciously warm and soft and only beginning to stir, and snuffled a protest into the nape of his neck.
“I have to get up.”
Alfie draped an arm over him and groped in a downwards kind of way. “You already are.”
“I mean I have to work.”
“Or—” Alfie gave Fen a languorous stroke “—you could stay here with me.”
That earned him a sweet, drowsy sound of mingled pleasure and reluctance. “Oh, Alfie, I need to get the shop ready or the stock will spoil and we’ll lose even more money.”
“Can I help out?”
Fen shook his head. “I can manage.”
“I wasn’t saying you couldn’t. Just asking to be involved.”
“I don’t want you to be involved.” He was going to insist but Fen went on. “I’d rather think of the hot man in my bed than drag you out of it before dawn to unload deliveries.”
As arguments went, it was pretty irresistible. “Well, at least let me give you something to take with you.”
“I really have to—”
“Won’t take long.”
Alfie rolled Fen onto his back, pinned him down by the hips, and went down on him with gusto. He was still all warm and sleep-lax, except for his cock, which was hard enough to challenge Alfie’s gag reflex. Not that he minded—he liked it when Fen was a little out of control. Which he soon was, the air full of his hoarse moans and the scrabble of his fingers against the wall above his head, and his body writhing under Alfie’s hands. He came in a scant handful of minutes, babbling out an incoherent stream of yes and oh and Alfie Alfie Alfie.
“Now that,” said Alfie, sitting back on his heels and wiping his mouth, “is a proper wake up.”
Fen was strewn, noticeably wobbly-legged and pink-flushed, across the sheets. “I think you might be insatiable, Alfie Bell.”
Greg had made a similar observation even though Alfie was firmly under the impression he had average appetites for a healthy northern lad in his prime. And, besides, he was starting to discover his enthusiasm for Greg, while it had been pretty major at the time, was nothing compared to his desire for Fen. Who he could barely keep his hands off. Who, in fact, some bestial part of his brain—well, probably not his brain exactly—wanted to keep naked and fuck-ready forever.
Shit. He was a pervert. A gay pervert.
“Well.” He shrugged. “I’ve got years of catching up to do.”
Fen stretched, muscles pulling tight under the smooth wave of his skin. “And there I thought I was special.”
“No, no, you are. It’s never been like this before. Never felt like—”
He was mercifully interrupted by Fen’s laughter. And then by his mouth. It wasn’t exactly the sexiest or the most romantic kiss Alfie had ever received, given they were both barely awake and Fen tasted sleepy and he probably tasted of Fen, but it was still . . . exactly right.
“You’re so sweet,” Fen whispered, fingers grazing the stubble at Alfie’s jaw.
Alfie didn’t think he was—not with the sort of stuff he’d been thinking a minute ago—but Fen looked so happy right then, his mouth soft and smiling, his eyes full of light, that he wasn’t about to correct him. He just wished he could make Fen look like that all the time.
Except then he was rolling away. Standing, gleamy and intriguing in the half-light. And gone. Presumably into the shower, from the groaning and clattering of the pipes. Alfie stuck his head under the pillow and did actually manage to drop off again, though without someone to cuddle, the bed had lost its only possible advantage. Waking a couple of hours later, he reflected ruefully that between his mattress and Fen’s sofa, they probably had something approaching one decent home between them.
There was definitely no point hanging around getting backache, so he got up and dressed, and headed downstairs to the shop. Fen was, once again, pulling buckets around, all bare forearms and perky arse. Not that Alfie had ever really thought about it before, but he would have assumed floristry was a prissy, arty kind of job. Not the sort of manual labour that left Fen with such rough, strong hands.
As soon as Fen saw him, he straightened and put his hands on his hips. Clearly an ill-fated attempt to look stern, when a smile was bursting out at the edges of his compressed lips. “What do you want now, Alfie?”
“I really can’t do anything to help?”
“Well, I don’t know. Can you make up some bouquets?”
Alfie sensed a trap. Also he wasn’t sure he really wanted to sissy about with flowers in case his dad found out. But he had offered . . . and a day with Fen was better than a day without him. “Dunno. Is it hard?”
“Why, no, Alfie Bell. Anyone can do it. That’s why there isn’t an entire industry built around the expertise of trained florists.”
“Howay, man. Don’t be like that. Can’t I mop the floor or summin?”
There was a tense little pause. Then Fen relented. Came into his arms, leaned into him, stretched up to be kissed. “I’m sorry.”
“’S’okay.”
Fen was kind of off when it came to Pansies, but Alfie couldn’t really blame him. It must have been hard to come back, even harder to stay. Though he got that, too—Fen had already lost his mum, so letting go of the shop would probably have felt like losing her all over again. Even though, really, they weren’t the same at all. And the only thing he was really keeping was the loss of her.
Alfie didn’t know how to say any of that, though. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have. It was the last thing Fen needed to hear from someone else.
So, instead he simply tried to soothe him, pressing the tension from his back in long, shiver-inspiring strokes. It was weird, or perhaps not weird at all, how easy it was to touch like this, its own little language, which included sex but was somehow more than sex.
“Gorra be tough,” he tried, “running a shop through a double-dip recession. I don’t know much about flowers, but I’m good with numbers. Want me to take a look at your books? I could get a head start on your tax return or think about cost cut—”
Fen jerked back sharply. “No. Just . . . God, Alfie, stop trying to help me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need it and . . . and . . .” There was something a bit frantic in Fen’s eyes and his voice, but then he drew in a deep, unsteady breath. Seemed to calm a little. “Because when I’m with you, I don’t want it to be about any of this.”
It was the most romantic fuck off Alfie had ever received. But it made him sad as well because he wanted to be part of Fen’s life, not separate from it. Involved in the things he cared about. Had given up pretty much everything for. “Can I at least chisel the concrete off your bathroom floor?”
“No.”
“But—”
A finger to his lips silenc
ed him. Lightly traced the upper arch and bottom curve, a bit like a kiss, but not. They stared at each other, deadlocked, caught between Alfie’s domineering tendencies and Fen’s stubbornness. He could have pushed—would probably have got his way, in the end, because he was Alfie Bell and Fen was right that he always did. But it would’ve been wrong. He wanted Fen to come to him out of trust. And to feel stronger for it, not weakened by it.
Alfie shrugged. “I guess I’ll get out your way, then.”
“It’s not that I don’t want you.” Fen’s eyes seemed to beg his understanding.
No, he thought with a muddle of exasperation and tenderness, you’re just too damn proud. But all he said was, “I’m coming back at four, mind. To help you close up.”
“Okay.”
They kissed again, lingeringly this time, until Fen’s mouth was as yielding as ripe fruit and he was pressed breathlessly against Alfie. Afterwards, he glanced up coyly, through the golden haze of his lashes. “I’m letting the social-justice side down terribly, but I kind of like when you get all bossy.”
“Oh aye?” Alfie couldn’t help swaggering at that. He knew he could be a bit of a bulldozer—a chauvinist bulldozer, to use Kitty’s exact phrase—but he was pleased and relieved to learn Fen found something sexy in his aggressive brand of over-caring.
Fen nodded. “Mm-hmm. Makes me think about fucking you.”
“Uh.”
“Don’t worry, Alfie.” Fen patted his cheek. “You’re still bossy when you’re being fucked.”
“Uh,” he said again. It was about all he could manage. He was drowning in heat. A blush that started in his cock.
Fen sidled even closer and went up on tiptoes so he could whisper, in a pretty decent approximation of Alfie’s rough northern lilt, “Fuck me, Fen, fuck me harder.”
“Oi.” He was caught between laughing and dying and leaving the country forever. Somehow, laughing won. And it felt a lot better than the other two would have. “You shouldn’t take the piss out of the stuff a bloke says when there’s a dick in him.”