by Alexis Hall
“Then—” Alfie put the bottle aside, well out of Fen’s reach “—you’re definitely doing it wrong.”
They sat down together on the sofa again, side by side, like actors in the sort of play Alfie hated. “You’ve got to eat, y’know,” he muttered. “No wonder you’re so skinny.”
“Just because my mum’s dead doesn’t mean the position’s open.”
Something a bit fretful, a bit shamed, stirred in Alfie’s gut. But he ignored it. “Howay. I’m not trying to mother you, I’m trying to date you. And, anyway, I’m hungry, even if you’re not.”
“I’m sorry.” Fen covered his eyes with his hand. “I just wasn’t prepared to have someone in my life. I’ve forgotten how to do it. What it feels like.”
“We can figure it out. What do you do when I’m not here?”
“Sit around like Fantine, mostly, wondering where it all went wrong.”
“You wha?”
“Drink, smoke, listen to music, miss my mum and my boyfriend and my life. Feel sorry for myself. Go to the Rattler and wait to be rescued by demons from my childhood. That kind of thing.”
Alfie really didn’t want to hear about the boyfriend Fen apparently still missed. But it looked like he was going to have to. “What about when you were, y’know, with wossname?”
“With David?” Fen’s face softened, opened like a night-blooming flower. “Well, mine isn’t . . . I mean wasn’t . . . exactly a nine-to-five job, so I worked pretty intense hours. And travelled a lot. And, on top of that, David . . . Have you heard of Pure-O? He gets pretty anxious sometimes.”
“Sounds like you weren’t all that suited,” said Alfie hopefully.
“Oh no, we were really happy. Just in a stay-at-home way that probably makes us sound incredibly boring.”
Bugger. So much for David not being much to live up to. “Sounds nice actually. My ex is kind of a party monster.”
“Is that what you’re into?”
“It’s okay sometimes, but not all the time. And, basically, the thing I’m up for in a pretty major way right now is spending time with you. So I say we do that.”
That earned him one of Fen’s sultry glances. “Look at you, taking charge.”
“Any objections?”
“On this occasion, none.” Fen shifted into a corner of the sofa and tucked his feet under him, curling up snail-shell tight. “Honestly, by the end of an average day, making even the smallest decision sometimes feels impossible.”
Alfie patted his knee. “So how about I nip down the road and get us something to eat while you find a movie?”
“I think,” Fen said slowly, “that would be completely wonderful.”
“Try not to get lung cancer or become an alcoholic while I’m gone.”
Fen smiled his widest, most crooked smile. “I’ll be good, I promise.”
It should have been some kind of world record for fastest ever takeaway trip. A few minutes later, Alfie was sitting in the window of the Ocean Pearl, waiting for his order and urgently googling “vegetarian meals for two.” Followed by “easy vegetarian meals for two,” because, bloody hell, cooking seemed at least as tricky as plastering, and what if he was shite at both?
And not long after that he was galloping back to Fen, who was pretty much exactly where Alfie had left him. He had, however, partially cleared the coffee table and got his laptop set up.
“Please tell me you picked up chopsticks,” he said, “because if not, you’re eating with your hands.”
“You don’t own any forks?”
“Of course I own forks.” Fen look faintly offended. “I just can’t remember the last time I washed one.”
Alfie laughed, plopped himself down on the sofa, and began emptying the bags, making a takeaway pyramid that he topped triumphantly with two sets of disposable chopsticks.
Fen gazed at him, all the green of his eyes lost to the shadows in the room. “You’re perfect, Alfie Bell.”
“So what we watching?” Alfie was so flustered, it was all he could manage: the incongruity of his response hanging in the air like an off-key note.
“Are you blushing?”
“No way.”
“Oh my God, you are. That’s . . . actually rather adorable.”
“I’m just confused cos you hardly ever say anything nice to me.”
“Well, you’ve never given me such incentive before.” Fen leaned in and closed his teeth gently over Alfie’s earlobe. Gave it a wicked little tug that sent rainbow sprinkles of pleasure cascading all the way down his spine. “I like making you blush.”
Great. Alfie was more than halfway to a hard-on. Like a teenager with his first kiss. Except Alfie’s first kiss had been a girl—a very nice girl called Lauren—and it had done absolutely nothing for him.
“You’ve perked up a bit,” he said.
“Smell of food. And having you here with me.”
He was really starting to see why David had been so into staying at home. “Did you find a movie?”
“I found several, actually.” Fen pointed proudly at a haphazard stack of DVDs, most of which were emblazoned with red sale stickers. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“The bad news?”
“They’re all musicals.”
“What’s the good news?”
Fen cringed. “Um, there isn’t any. I just wanted to try and make the bad news seem less bad.”
“I’m not sure it works that way.” Alfie sorted through the pile in dismay. “You don’t have Netflix or summin?”
“You’ve seen where I live. What I drink. You know I can’t have nice things.”
Alfie didn’t have a subscription himself—he didn’t have time to actually use it—but he seriously thought about getting one now. Except Fen would probably get all proud and stubborn and pissy about it. And he much preferred Fen like this, believing he was perfect.
“How about this?” Alfie waved Les Misérables. It looked the newest of them.
Fen pulled a face. “Well, okay, but if you hate it really deeply, we have to stop. And if you make one comment about how implausible it is that they’re singing, I get to punch you in the head.”
“Deal.”
They put it on and Alfie squidged into the sofa, with a box of vegetables and sauce.
“Hey,” he said, “that’s Wolverine.”
Fen flashed him a little smile. “I know. All that, and he can sing.”
“And that’s Maximus Thingius. He’s . . . not so happy.”
“Must be his hat. It’s awful.”
There really was a lot of singing. Singing and scenery. And Fen didn’t eat as much as Alfie would have hoped.
On the other hand, as soon as he was done, he put his food aside and stretched right out, his feet falling very naturally into Alfie’s lap. For a moment or two, Alfie just left them there, enjoying the heat and the pressure, and the sense of closeness that came from having a bit of Fen right there on top of him. Then, experimentally, he encircled his ankles. Fen yipped and jerked.
“You ticklish?”
“Nooo.”
Alfie traced the underside of Fen’s foot with the pad of his thumb, making his toes curl protectively. “You sure?”
“Well . . . maybe. But I sort of like it. Sometimes. I can’t explain.”
It was weirdly hot having Fen wriggling about, his foot trembling in Alfie’s hand, but not being pulled away. Just resting there, vulnerable and sensitive and kind of trusting. He obviously knew the film pretty well, and seemed more interested in watching Alfie watch.
Which, y’know, was okay. Even though it made him a bit self-conscious. Especially when Catwoman had to become a prostitute and he got teary.
He liked it best, though, when Fen sang along. Which he didn’t seem to notice he was doing until he would catch Alfie looking at him, and then give this sheepish little half smile and stop. Though only for about a minute, then he’d start humming again.
All in all, Alfie was pretty sure Les M
isérables hadn’t become part of his soul. But he didn’t completely hate it. Still a bit of a relief, though, when everybody was dead, which meant they’d got to the end.
“You okay?” Fen asked. “Still into me?”
Alfie stretched, his back clicking. “Course I am.”
“It’s better on stage.”
Oh fucking hell. “Um, no, seriously. This was fine. I’m good.”
For some reason, his fervour made Fen laugh. So Alfie assaulted the particularly ticklish bits of his feet until he was yelping and breathless and begging for mercy.
“What’s wrong with movie musicals anyway?” he asked, relenting at last.
Fen shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess . . . I think when things are on screen, we expect them to be realistic. Even if its CGI dinosaurs. But musicals aren’t like that. They’re not . . . a sugar cube dissolving in a cup of coffee. They’re someone in a silly hat, standing in the middle of a stage, singing their heart out. I’ll never not feel that.”
“C’mere.” Alfie’s voice had gone growly as he pulled at Fen’s wrist.
Fen swallowed visibly and swung himself into Alfie’s lap, straddling him just like he had that time he’d brought Alfie a flower.
“Y’know, you’re perfect too.” Alfie smoothed Fen’s hair out of the way, cupped his face, and brought him in for a deep, hot kiss. “I’m never going to be that into musicals, but I love hearing you talk about them. Love hearing you talk all the time.”
“I . . .” a shaky laugh “ . . . I talk a lot.”
“I know. I also love it when you can’t.”
Fen blinked, pretty and startled, the wavery light from the still-rolling credits playing across his glasses.
“Yeah, cos you’re all breathless and helpless and at my mercy.”
“Oh . . . I . . . Oh.”
“Just like that.”
Fen laughed, flushing, and then leaned in and kiss-bit him. It hurt a little, but it was a sweet, bright pain that went straight to his cock like the touch of those too-rough hands. “If you want me at your mercy, you have to earn it.”
“Do I now?”
A nod. Fen’s breath was harsh, his eyes very bright, the colour high on his cheeks. He’d looked like that driving Alfie’s car too fast up Lizard Lane. But it felt different. And he didn’t think it was solely about the fact they probably weren’t going to spin off the road and die.
He yanked and fumbled Fen’s shirt buttons open. Pulled it partway down his arms, leaving him trapped. Chased another kiss, catching the sulky-succulent curve of Fen’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth. Fen went still, and then pressed into him with a muffled whimper, his body as supple and maddening as mercury, making Alfie kiss him harder. A hot, slick muddle of teeth and tongues, not quite moving together.
Until Fen pulled back. Wriggling away when Alfie caught for him, his mouth all smirky and kiss-swollen. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
“No . . .” said Alfie, a little doubtfully.
Fen’s eyes glittered at him. “I’m not scared of you, Alfie Bell.”
“Good.” He grabbed Fen’s wrists, rough this time, like he meant it. Like he was really trying to overpower him. And Fen struggled. Like he was really trying to stop him.
And maybe Alfie’s wires were crossed, but it was . . . kind of fun, rolling about, half on and half off the sofa, with Fen, not really fighting at all. It made him very aware of all the things he really liked about Fen’s body: his strength, his resilience, the tendons on his forearms, the muscles in his long thighs, the silky triangle of hair on his chest and the rougher line of it down his belly, the hard cock trapped between them. Basically, the fact he was absolutely, undeniably, gorgeously a man. Sharp and tender and fearless and vulnerable.
He finally got Fen pinned. Began peeling him out of his jeans and boxers.
“Going to behave?”
Fen laughed up at him, from beneath a tangle of hair. “Give me a reason to.”
Simple enough. He closed his free hand round Fen’s cock, gliding with that hot, fragile skin until Fen was pushing into his touch, gasping, all playfulness abandoned for something raw and true and real.
“Get up here.” Alfie’s voice came out all hoarse.
A bit like the sound he made when Fen obeyed, straddling his lap again, hands resting lightly on his shoulders. He’d seen Fen naked at least twice, he should have been used to it by now . . . but somehow he wasn’t. Fen in nothing but his skin was fresh magic every time. Like seeing his Sagaris waiting for him at the kerb, knowing all that beauty and power was his.
“Are you all right?” Fen’s fingertips brushed the side of his face.
“Yeah . . . I mean. It’s not weird, is it? When I’m still fully dressed.”
“Ohhh.” Fen smiled—more than a touch of smug in it. “You like having me like this?”
“I’d like you any way I could get you. But yeah.”
“Because you like being in control?”
“A bit. But also—” he stroked his hands all the way up Fen’s spine to the wings of his shoulder blades “—cos there’s no distraction from you.”
Fen tossed his hair clear of his shoulders and arched into Alfie’s touch, so the light spilled down his body like water, making him shine. “I like being naked for you. I love the way you look at me.” His eyes closed, the lashes falling softly gold against his cheeks, and his fingers traced an idle path to his own throat. “It makes me feel like . . . me again. Like I’m still here.”
“You are here. You’re here with me.”
Fen opened his eyes again. “And at your mercy.”
Yeah, right. At the mercy of Alfie’s beauty-struck stare. His wonder-struck fingers. Trembling along the sharp edge of Fen’s collarbones, into the deep hollows behind, where everything was tight and soft.
“Put your hands on the sofa back,” he whispered.
And Fen did, stretched out over Alfie, open to him, and the curve of his spine broke Alfie wide as an oyster shell. He pressed his mouth helplessly to Fen’s throat. It tasted so familiar: sweat, salt, Fen. Felt familiar too, the rough and the smooth, the ripple of Fen’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
“Oh Fen.” The words escaped before he could stop them. “You’re the bonniest lad I’ve ever seen.”
A shaky near-laugh. “I’d say you’re exaggerating . . . but don’t stop.”
Alfie swept his hands down Fen’s hips, over his arse, and up to the dip of his lower back. Then again. Again and again, learning those sleek lines like calligraphy, and the letter he shaped was Fen.
Fen’s head fell forward, his breath hot and shallow against Alfie’s cheek. Chanting Alfie’s name. Pressing himself into Alfie’s hands. And when Alfie traced, at last, the sleekest, warmest places of his flesh, he cried out sharply, his cock jerking between them. Alfie brought his fingers to his lips, got them good and wet, and Fen moaned, just at the sound of it. He lifted his hips, hollowed his spine, presenting himself to Alfie’s touching.
“Fuck. God.” That in answer to the first swirl of Alfie’s fingers. “Oh yes.”
Suddenly Alfie looked up, all motion stilled. “What’s that?”
“Um,” said Fen, sounding slightly annoyed, “it’s my arse.”
“No, that noise. It came from downstairs. I thought I heard rattling.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He nudged eagerly against Alfie’s hand. “It’s probably just the kids come back to fix their handiwork.”
“What? Seriously? The little bastards.”
“Alfie— Oof.”
He hadn’t meant to dump Fen off his lap quite so unceremoniously, but . . . that was sort of what happened. And he didn’t mean to leave him lying in a heap on the sofa like a half-squashed daddy longlegs, but . . . that was sort of what happened as well, as Alfie ran to the window to see what was happening.
Sure enough, squinting through a gap in the curtains, he could just about make out shadowy splodges on the street. The
re were definitely people down there. He banged on the glass, but either they didn’t hear or they didn’t care.
Fen struggled into a sitting position, one leg curled over the other for modesty’s sake, his nakedness a little ridiculous now. “It’s not worth it. It’s never worth it.”
“No way.” Even the pleading note in Fen’s voice couldn’t hold Alfie back. “This crap stops tonight.”
With that, Alfie charged out of the room, down the stairs, and through the side door. He tore round the corner, bellowing the traditional North Eastern battle cry of “Oi!” Found a tangle of kids and bikes and cans of spray paint, FAGGO in big cheerful letters emblazoned across the newly scrubbed grille. He was so angry, he could feel it bubbling in his skin. And it was so much easier to be angry.
His appearance generated a gratifying amount of alarm and the vandals scattered, snatching their bikes and careening away in a clatter of pedals and a swoosh of wheels. Alfie surged after them, yelling bloody murder and grabbing wildly. He managed to get a handful of hoodie. Brought its owner pinwheeling backwards off his BMX.
The bike spun into the kerb, and the kid gave a terrible screech, arms and legs thrashing in all directions. But Alfie had spent most of his adolescence getting into fights and the instincts were still there. He was slightly hampered, at first, by not wanting to brutalise a child, but as soon as the child began yelling obscenities at him, he lost all such scruples. He wrestled the kid against the bonnet of the nearest car—not his own, of course, there was no way he was doing that to his Sagaris—and pinned him there with his arms twisted up behind his back.
“Alfie, what the fuck are you doing?” Fen, barefoot and wearing what appeared to be a purple silk kimono, came running into the street.
It was actually a good question. He couldn’t just let the kid go—he’d only come back. Maybe do worse. But, now he had him, what was he supposed to do with him? If Alfie had ever pulled a stunt like this, his dad would have belted the living shit out of him. But you couldn’t go around doing that to other people’s kids. Honestly, Alfie wasn’t even sure he’d be able to do it to his own. It hadn’t done him any harm, but the thought of it just . . . didn’t sit well with him, like the time Kev had dared him to drink a pint of off milk. He didn’t resent his dad, but, he realised with a sudden and eerie clarity, he didn’t like him much. Was probably more than a little bit scared of him. And he would never want his son to feel that way about him.