by Alexis Hall
He would want his son to feel protected and looked after and loved. Or, y’know, daughter. If he had a daughter. That’d be cool too. And, oh God, they were all right about him. His dad, this bloody kid, everyone. He was soft. A sissy faggot nancy.
He shoved the lad a little harder into the car and prepared to impart a (verbal) life lesson about respect. “Now listen here—”
“Gerroff me, you fucking dirty queer. And fuck you. Cocksucking freak.”
“Shut up.” Alfie tried not to sound horrified. All he was doing was teaching this kid that adults were powerless. That he was powerless. “Just . . . shut up and . . . stop being a git.”
His anger was leaking away. Which gave him space to feel a lot of other awful shit: confusion and loneliness and hurt, and where the fuck had that come from? They were just kids. They shouldn’t be able to hurt him.
“Please let him go.” That was Fen, all gentleness, with his southern-softened vowels, the night air stirring his too-long, pink-tipped hair, and the edges of whatever the fuck he was wearing, making the pattern of flowers ripple.
Out of nowhere, Alfie was furious again. And it felt sweet and strong and safe. It was like Fen was fucking asking for it. Why couldn’t he even pretend to be normal?
He gritted his teeth, adjusting his hold to free a hand—not entirely sure what he was going to do, but wanting, more than anything, to do something. So he could stop feeling like this. “Someone has to teach the little bastard a lesson.”
The kid went crazy, screaming in earnest now between the insults, and pounding his feet against the pavement. Lights began to glow in the windows of the houses opposite.
“Oh my God, stop it. Stop it right now.” Fen’s hands closed around Alfie’s elbow, as he tried to physically drag him away.
But Alfie was having none of it. He shook him off easily—and had just enough self-control to be gentle about it. He didn’t want to hurt Fen. Or have him get hurt. Just wanted him out of the way.
The kid, of course, used this momentary distraction to make another escape attempt. “Lemme go. Fucking faggot, fucking cocksucker, lemme go.”
“You really need to widen your vocabulary,” Fen told him wearily. “In the eighteenth century they called us mollies and mandrakes. In Hebrew, there’s noshech kariot, which means ‘pillow biter,’ and in Spanish there’s maricón, which I can’t really translate, because it has something to do with the Virgin Mary, but apparently it’s very insulting.”
“This isn’t the time to be fucking clever,” Alfie growled.
“But didn’t you say we ought to teach him a lesson? If he wants to spend his life insulting a group of people, he should get better at it.” Fen folded his arms, his attention on the kid again. “If you were from the Caribbean, you could call me a batty man, which refers to a specific sexual preference. And in Mandarin, there’s duànxiù, meaning ‘cut sleeve.’ It refers to Emperor Ai of the Han dynasty, who chose to cut the sleeve from his garment rather than disturb his male concubine, who had fallen asleep on it. Although, now I think about it, that’s rather romantic and probably wouldn’t suit your purpose. But, even so, there’s always the old standbys: poof and fairy and—”
“Shurrup.” The kid turned his head and spat at Fen, spattering his dressing gown thing with strings of phlegmy saliva.
Fen didn’t react at all—same as all those years ago. “Let him go.”
“But he spat on you. He’s calling you . . . us . . . names.”
“So? You can’t beat up homophobia. Or children.”
Alfie swayed, slightly sick with the aftermath of adrenaline. “What do we do?”
“We hope he grows up and stops being afraid. Just like you did.”
The lightest brush of fingers against Alfie’s arm, not to stop him this time, but simply to reach him. Like he was lost and Fen was calling his name. Guiding him through the dark.
It made something weak inside him buckle.
And just then, the kid slammed his head back. Got Alfie on the nose.
“Jesus Christ.” His ears exploded with the crunch of his own cartilage. And then there was pain. Blood in his mouth. Flashing lights behind his eyes.
As Alfie staggered, half-blind, bewildered with the sheer shock of it, the kid kicked him hard in the shins and bolted for his bike. Pedalled furiously away.
The merry jing-a-ling-ling of a bell sliced through the sudden silence.
Across the road, at what he clearly considered to be a safe distance, the kid swerved to a halt. “Faggot,” he yelled, shrill and triumphant. He was too far away to really see, but Alfie was sure he grinned. A feral and empty grin.
Then he wheeled his bike around. And was gone.
“I’m not a faggot.” Alfie staggered after him, not even giving chase, just moving because . . . what else could he do? Stand still? “I’m not a faggot, do you hear me?” The night took his words, as if they were nothing. “I’m not a faggot. I’m . . . I’m a person.”
Half the lights in the street were on now. The shadows of strangers staring down at him. Watching. Judging. Who the fuck knew?
“Alfie, oh, Alfie.” Fen, running after him, all streaming silk and flying hair, gleaming like a candle flame. “Are you all right? Your nose? Is it broken?”
“Don’t think so. But—” this terrible grief crested inside him and then came roaring at Fen “—what the fuck are you thinking? Being out here like that?”
“Like what? I’m here because I was worried about you.”
“I can take care myself. I’m not some poncy southern cream puff, you know, who can’t hold his own in a fight.”
A brief, tight silence.
“Yes, I’m well aware you’re good at hurting people. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be at your side. Even if—” Fen rolled his eyes “—you’re your own worst enemy.”
“I was handling it. You just made it worse. Flouncing around like some kind of . . .”
Fen had gone very pale. Very still. “Like some kind of what?”
“Some kind of . . .” Alfie gestured at the flowery kimono “. . . pansy.”
There was a rushing in Alfie’s ears, like listening to the sea through a shell, except inside his head. And his mouth was so sour and coppery he thought he might be sick.
“In case you’ve forgotten,” Fen said quietly, “I am a pansy. And so are you.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have to act like it.”
“Oh my God.” Fen actually threw his hands in the air, purple silk billowing around him. “Go to therapy, Alfie Bell. I’ve got too much shit in my life to deal with your internalised homophobia.”
He turned on his heel and swept away, heading for the side door.
Alfie stared after him, full of all this stuff he couldn’t figure out or articulate. He was sure he was angry, but it hurt. Everything hurt. And he felt so alone. And Fen was leaving.
“It’s all right for you,” he heard himself shout. “You have a choice.”
Fen stopped abruptly. Turned. Blazingly furious. “What the shit is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t have to be like this. Or live like this. Or deal with any of it.” The words bubbled out of him, and they tasted like blood. “You could be with a woman. You could be straight.”
“But I’m not straight. Who I’m with doesn’t change who I am.” Fen threaded his fingers through his hair and pulled so hard it must have hurt. “I’m such a fucking idiot. How could I ever think you of all people could respect me or understand me or care about me. Next time just put my head down the toilet, you pathetic, waste-of-space, walking cliché.”
“Oi!” Across the street, a window sash rattled and one of Fen’s neighbours leaned out. “Some of us are trying te kip. Calm the fuck doon, or I’ll call the bizzies on ye.”
For some reason that only made Fen laugh—one of his bitter ones, though. “I’m causing a disturbance, but kids vandalising my shop and throwing eggs at my house don’t? You’re a bigoted old wazzock, and you can pi
ss right off.” He glanced at Alfie, eyes steel in the greyish moonlight. “And the same goes for you. I never want to see you again.”
Alfie’s world was treacle. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel. “All my stuff’s still in the flat.”
“Then get it and get out.”
It took more effort than Alfie would have believed possible—almost more than he could muster—to move his feet. But somehow he did, one step, then the next, then the next.
Fen didn’t even look back.
18
Nothing seemed real. Not Alfie. Not Fen. Not the living room, where they’d been so happy less than twenty minutes ago. It was like those stories about fairy gold, which glittered so bright and made you think you were rich, only to turn back to stones when the sun set.
He grabbed his keys. His wallet. Phone.
Coat.
Was he forgetting something? He didn’t know anymore.
He didn’t know anything.
There was this pressure in his head, building and building. Maybe he’d broken his nose after all.
And then there were tears streaking out of his eyes. The salt of them mingling with the drying blood and stinging. He made a wet, choked sound. Shock mostly.
Put a bewildered hand to his face. His fingers came away wet.
“Alfie?” Fen. Sounding very far away. “Alfie, are you all right?”
“Yeah.”
He was leaving. That was right. He was leaving because Fen didn’t want him anymore. Because he’d fucked everything up. Said all this stuff . . . stuff he meant and didn’t mean and couldn’t find his way through anymore. And he was just so tired and sad and scared of everything.
Fen again, “Are you crying?”
He was almost into the hall when Fen’s hand brushed against his shoulder. Another of his so-light touches. But Alfie felt it like the needles of a tattoo gun.
Fen was in him so deep. Under his skin.
He would wear him forever. In all the colours of every flower that daily dared the sun.
And that was when it happened. Hairline fractures became rifts. Tore open vast and terrifying chasms. He broke.
Turned into Fen’s waiting arms and sobbed and sobbed and couldn’t stop.
“Don’t look at me,” he muttered, through the mess of spit and snot and blood.
Fen’s arms were tight. Unyielding in their strength. And they wouldn’t let Alfie go. His voice, though, his voice was soft as summer waves. “Shhh. It’s all right. I promise, it’s all right.”
“It’s not. It’s not fucking all right.” It took Alfie a moment to find the problem. He knew it was there, knew everything was wrong, but Fen, being held by Fen like this, kept making it different. Then he remembered. “Men don’t cry.”
“Oh, Alfie, Alfie Bell—” now Fen’s voice broke “—of course they do.”
He sniffed. “Not proper ones.”
“Now listen here. You’ve said more than enough crap for one evening. Everyone cries. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it.”
They had somehow ended up on the floor: a slow, entangled slide from feet to knees. Which meant Fen had somehow got himself all round Alfie. Wrapped him up tight. It made Alfie feel small. Well, smaller than usual. But not entirely in a bad way. Truthfully, he wanted to live here. Inside Fen, forever.
“It’s blummin’ awful,” he said.
Fen’s mouth twitched a little, like he was trying really hard not to smile. “Well, you probably have the crying equivalent of blue balls. Things are always more intense when you suppress them.”
“Don’t want to make a habit of it.”
“I’m not saying you should. Cry when you need to, that’s all.”
Alfie prickled a bit at that. “I’m not some bleedy-heart—”
“Alfie, seriously. You need to stop this, for your own sake as much as mine. I don’t want to hear another fucking thing about how you’re not this or not that. Why not spend the time figuring out who you are, instead?”
“That’s the problem, mate.” Alfie wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ve no fucking clue.”
Fen gazed at him, pale and solemn, eyes cutting deep. “I thought I knew, before tonight.”
“I . . . I really fucked up. All that shit I said to you.”
“Some part of you believes it, though.”
He burrowed into Fen, fully expecting to be pushed away. But he wasn’t. “I just . . . I guess . . . I know you’re not straight, I do get that. Sort of. But I don’t know why you’d be with a man like. If you could be with a woman.”
“Because,” Fen said gently, “for me, it’s not about gender. It’s about the person. And I happened to meet a man I really liked. Someone strong and kind and sexy and bossy. And so I wanted to be with him.”
“All those past tenses are really freaking me out.”
“Yes, well, he was a complete dick to me tonight.”
“He’s . . . I’m really sorry.”
Fen sighed. “I know you are. But I meant what I said. I’ve been queer all my life. You and your friends didn’t give much choice about that. And I can’t deal—I won’t deal—with someone who can’t accept me. Or accept himself.”
“I’m trying.” Alfie’s eyes had apparently decided they wanted to cry again. “I’m trying really hard. P-please don’t give up on me.”
“I suppose it would be pretty unfair,” Fen conceded, after a horrifyingly long pause. “Considering all the times you haven’t given up on me.”
Alfie uncurled just enough that he could meet Fen’s gaze straight on. “I’ll never give up on you, Fen. Never.”
“You know something, Alfie Bell. It scares me witless . . . but I think I believe you.”
They rolled apart, Alfie realising he’d got a crick on his neck, and Fen shaking his arm like maybe he had pins and needles in it. It was weirdly companionable to lie there on Fen’s hideous brown-patterned carpet, side by side, staring at the cracks in his ceiling and feeling almost okay.
“How’s your nose?” asked Fen. “It looks horrible. Um, no offence.”
Alfie touched it gingerly. And winced. “It’s probably okay? Just needs cleaning up.”
“Aren’t you supposed to put frozen peas on it?”
“I dunno. Am I?”
“For the swelling or something?”
“Do you have frozen peas?”
“Let me check.” Fen darted into the kitchen and came back with something pinkish clasped in his hand. “I found this frozen chicken breast. God knows how long it’s been in there. Will it do?”
The idea of holding a fossilised dead bird against his face didn’t really appeal to Alfie, but Fen was looking all wide-eyed and hopeful and adorable. “I guess the important thing is that it’s cold. I’m sure it doesn’t matter what it is.”
“Okay, good.”
So Alfie accepted the fossilised dead bird. And it did at least numb his nose enough that he was able to wash away the blood and general mess without hurting himself too much. Once he was de-gored, he was relieved to discover he was basically fine. Probably he would be swollen and tender and bruised for a bit. But that was the extent of the damage.
He came back to the living room to find Fen in a pair of navy-blue sweatpants, which hung low enough to show the sleekness of his belly and the sharp jut of his hips. It was a nice look, but he felt kind of bad about it.
“Uh. I’m sorry I said . . . Did I . . . What happened to the purple thing?”
That made Fen laugh. “You can rest easy if you think I’d let your issues affect my style. The kimono’s in the washing machine because a teenager hocked over it.”
“Oh. Right.” Alfie was still in no way a fan of the kimono, but he was oddly relieved to know he wasn’t responsible for its absence. He slumped into the embrace of the sofa. “It’s really late, isn’t it?”
“Eleven or twelve, maybe?”
Alfie clenched and unclenched his hands. “Uh. D’you want to mebbe go for a drive?”
“What? Now?”
“Aye. I dunno . . . it clears my head sometimes.”
It seemed kind of a weird idea, now it was just hanging there. But to his surprise, after looking at him for what felt like a long time, Fen nodded. “If that’s what you want. Just let me go get a top.”
A few minutes later, Fen was tucked into a hoodie and they were back on the street, making their way to where Alfie had parked the Sagaris. The keys were a reassuring weight in his hand. Something made him stop, though, before he unlocked the door.
“Do you want to drive?” he asked.
Fen squeaked. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“Is this guilt? Because you called me a queeny part-timer?”
“No. I mean . . . I do feel guilty. But that’s not why I offered.” Actually, he wasn’t really sure why he’d offered. It should have been his idea of hell, surrendering control of his beloved car to someone else. “I just thought you might like to.”
“I really would. But are you sure you trust me? After what happened last time.”
“You going to do that again?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I trust you.”
Alfie handed over the keys, and they swapped sides. This time, it didn’t feel so bad, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Where shall we go?” Fen had to raise his voice over the leonine growl of the engine waking. “Round the block?”
At first Alfie didn’t answer. Then, “When I was a teenager, I used to head up the A1 towards Edinburgh. It’s really nice cos you’ve got the sea and stuff. Just promise to slow down when I tell you.”
“I promise.” Fen turned his head, met Alfie’s gaze directly. “I’ll never do that again.”
Alfie felt a tug at the corner of his mouth—a smile that happened all on its own. “Guess I believe you.”
And then they were off. True to his word, Fen drove carefully through the streets of South Shields and Jarrow. Guiding them into the glitter-streaky darkness of the Tyne Tunnel and out again, past North Shields, and finally onto the A19 heading north.