by Alexis Hall
The Sagaris wasn’t exactly easy to handle—she was all power, no control—but Fen was doing okay. It was kind of nice, watching him do that. Watching him grow his confidence. And then just . . . get it. The joy. Like nothing else on earth.
As he’d predicted, there wasn’t much traffic on the A1. It unfurled before them like a ghostly ribbon beneath the cloud-crumpled sky. The world became a strip of light. And the night swallowed everything they left behind.
“You can open her up a bit, if you like.” Alfie pulled out his phone and turned on Cyclops. “Just remember to slow down for the cameras.”
“I . . . I’m nervous. What if I kill us?”
“Then we’ll be dead.”
Fen’s hands tightened on the wheel. “That’s not helping.”
“You’ll be fine, pet. Go on, now. Make her sing.”
There it was: the familiar throaty howl that never failed to grip Alfie’s heart, make his pulse race, and the effortless slide from fast to faster to really fucking fast. They soared past seventy-eighty-ninety-one hundred in fragments of seconds. You couldn’t even really see it happening. Only feel it.
And, suddenly, Fen was laughing. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
“Fun, right?”
They had to shout over the engine.
“Fun?” Fen sounded all rough and breathless—sexy as hell. “I feel . . . I feel like I’m defying gravity.”
“Well, let’s not try any stunt jumps, eh? This isn’t the next Grand Theft Auto game.”
“I somehow keep forgetting you’re musically illiterate. It’s a song.”
“Oh aye? Going to do it for me?”
“I’m not sure I can hit the F but—” Fen tossed the hair back from his face. “But, you know something? Right now . . . maybe I can.”
So they roared along the empty A1, past hazy fields and trees that looked like shadows of themselves, while Fen—his voice as pure as starlight—sang about a wizard, and change, and how nobody would ever keep him down.
Alfie had no way of telling if he got the note right. But he didn’t care. It was just nice hearing Fen sing again—though did it count as again when he barely remembered the first time? He wished he could. But the truth was, he couldn’t link that silver-and-gold sylph boy to the man he was now. Just like the stupid kid Alfie’d been couldn’t have connected Fen—or James as he’d been then—to a person whose life he was ruining. But, still, for the first time since the night after the wedding, his head felt a bit less split open. Like maybe there were bridges after all. Even if it meant accepting the reality of someone he didn’t want to be. And someone else other people didn’t want him to be. And the fact they were both him anyway and always had been . . .
Fuck. Maybe he did need therapy.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been entangled in phenomenology, but then Fen broke the silence. “Do you have any idea where we are?”
Somewhere between South Shields and Edinburgh probably wasn’t the answer Fen was looking for. Alfie glanced out of the window, looking for clues, but it had been such a long time since he’d driven this way, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to recognise the scenery in daylight. “Somewhere near Berwick maybe? I don’t think we crossed the border, anyway.”
Fen made a cute little startled noise. “I drove us to Scotland? That means I should probably stop, doesn’t it?”
“You don’t have to.”
A river snaked by, gleaming dully in the darkness.
“N-no, I should. Or I might not. It’s kind of addictive.”
“Well, you’ll run out of road eventually.”
“Let’s try to avoid a Thelma and Louise situation.” Fen slowed and eased them into a slip road, and then into a twisty little B road, searching for somewhere they could turn around.
There still wasn’t much for Alfie to see—a stipple of wooden fences marking out a tumble of grey-washed fields that muddled into the sky. And no moon. Just its glow locked behind ragged clouds, turning their edges yellow, like a grandma doily.
“I’m also ridiculously horny,” murmured Fen, as he stopped the Sagaris on a dirt track beneath a dangling-branched tree.
“You what?”
“Apparently driving your car really fast while singing musical numbers excites me.” Fen caught him by the wrist and dragged his hand to his cock. Which was as stiff as the gearstick and quite a bit hotter.
“Lemme help with that.”
Fen’s hips bucked. “No, I mean yes, oh fuck. I mean, I want you to fuck me.”
“Not sure there’s room.”
“Who said anything about in the car?”
At that moment, zero-to-sixty in three point seven seconds had nothing on Alfie. Seat belt off. Door open. He just had time to blurt out “I haven’t got—” when Fen, coming the other way, at about the same speed, shoved the crisp crinkled square of a condom into his hand. Then there was nothing but the collision: bodies and tongues and Fen’s fingers clumsy at his belt. It wasn’t really a kiss. It was an act of need and violence, like he could force his heart into Fen’s mouth and make him swallow it. And Fen didn’t flinch, didn’t yield. Just came at him, ferocious, claiming him right back. Until everything was heat and pressure, and the deepest taste of Fen, and Alfie could hardly bear his own wanting.
He grabbed Fen round the waist and flung him against the still-warm bonnet of the car. Fen landed with a gasp, steadying himself with his hands for a moment, before wriggling out of his trousers. At least until they got tangled in his shoes, leaving him kicking with all the grace of a mountain goat. Alfie tried to help, except he ended up nearly dragging Fen back off the car. So the whole thing was basically carnage. But the world had spun a bit skew-whiff—or Alfie had—and it had all sort of become . . . part of the same thing. The messy stuff and the sexy stuff together. Like maybe he’d never seen anything quite as beautiful, or maddeningly erotic, as Fen’s bare knees flailing in the greyish moonlight.
He nearly dropped the condom twice. Then tried to put it on inside out.
“Come on come on come on.” Fen propped himself on his elbows, watching Alfie from between his splayed-open thighs. And Alfie was kind of lust-shocked with how lewd he looked like that, all exposed and shameless, his cock dripping, his balls drawn up tight, and shadows arrowing into the cleft of his arse, pulling Alfie’s gaze with them.
Finally, he was ready. He wrenched Fen’s legs even wider, dragging a rough, undeniably enthusiastic moan from him. Lined up as best he could, groping with the lube-slickened head of his cock through the soft and secret places of Fen’s body.
“I’m waiting for you, Alfie Bell.” Fen’s glasses were full of reflections—made his eyes glitter. “Fucking own me.”
Stupid worst impossible fucking time to hesitate. But . . .
“Own me back?” His voice sounded weird and thin just then.
Fen flung a knee over one of Alfie’s shoulders, curled a foot over his hip. “Of course I do. Now fuck me and make me feel it. Make me scream.”
Suddenly Alfie wasn’t hesitating anymore. He shoved inside in one merciless thrust, taking Fen’s body as he’d taken his mouth.
And Fen really did scream, this wild, naked sound. “Oh God yes. Like that. Just . . . like . . . that . . .”
Before dissolving into sharp cries and punched-out groans. The occasionally jolty yes or breathless A-Ah-Al-fie. Since what Alfie was giving him was less a fucking than an onslaught, slamming their bodies together with a force that rocked his car. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to rough sex, but he hadn’t realised how much he’d been holding back before.
Somehow, with Fen, it felt safe not to. Like he wanted everything Alfie could give and was strong enough to take it. If Alfie was worried about anything, it was the Sagaris, but right then, clenched in the fierce heat of Fen, a few dents seemed like nothing.
Besides, he had a few dents of his own. And was figuring out how to live with them.
He mumble-growled something—didn’t even k
now himself what he was trying to say—and shoved Fen’s hoodie up to his armpits, exposing an arch of straining, sweat-shining skin. Hooking Fen’s knees over his elbows, he leaned over him and licked his way up Fen’s stomach like he was doing a tequila slammer. Then suckered his mouth over a nipple and pulled until Fen threw back his head and wailed with jagged ecstasy.
Alfie lifted up again. Got back to fucking. Staring down at Fen. In that strange, moon-touched light, he was a piece of silver, shaped to the curves of the Sagaris, fey and feral and lovely. His back was arched, his throat exposed, his hands flung haphazardly towards the windscreen . . . and Alfie felt happiness break inside him like tears. He came, a second or two later, in a muddled rush of urgent passion and helpless tenderness, so deep in Fen that he felt almost part of him. And, for the first time in a long time, whole.
“Oh shit.” He forced open his eyes. He was supposed to be good at this—and he’d come first, like he didn’t know how to fuck somebody. “Shit. I’m so sor—”
“Shh. No. Don’t move.” Fen twisted on his softening cock. “Right on the edge . . . just . . .”
Alfie wrapped a hand round him.
“God yes please. Hard. Yes. Perfect yes . . . oh.”
A few savage pulls and a slippery finger tracing a line between his balls and his hole, where Alfie’s cock still nestled, and Fen came too. So debauched and pretty, sprawled across Alfie’s car, his glasses steamed up and his hair all over his face. His mouth stretched open in moaning, wordless bliss, and his warm semen spilling riotously over Alfie’s fingers.
It was irresistible. Alfie brought his hand to his mouth and licked it clean. Yeah, so it wasn’t the most delicious thing in the world, but it was Fen. The taste of Fen’s pleasure.
Fen lifted a weary hand and gave him a teasing sort of thumbs-up. “A-plus gay, Alfie Bell.”
“I don’t normally.” Alfie could feel himself blushing and was glad for the darkness. “I just wanted to . . . cos it’s you.”
He eased out carefully and tugged off the condom. Then tied up the end, rolled the whole thing into an old tissue, and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“I don’t want to litter.”
“Of course you don’t.” It was hard to read Fen’s expression through the shifting shadows. And when he finally spoke it was quietly, almost like he was on the verge of laughing, but maybe not. “You know, I used to think I was so messed up for being in love with you. After everything you did to me.”
“Wait. What?”
“Just . . . kiss me, will you?”
Alfie settled gingerly over Fen, braced on his elbows so he didn’t crush him (or the car). They kissed for a long time, sticky and sore and sweet, the night air nibbling playfully at Alfie’s exposed arse. Afterwards, and once they were dressed again, they lay on the bonnet together, Fen’s head tucked against Alfie’s shoulder, his bent knee resting on top of Alfie’s legs.
“You didn’t guess?” he asked.
“Well, you said before that you sort of fancied me like. But you didn’t say . . .” Alfie swallowed. He’d always been taught to be suspicious of the L-word. Or anything, really, that smacked of unmanly sentiment. “But I didn’t know you liked me.”
“I didn’t like you. I loved you. Or had a crush on you, I guess.”
Alfie’s heart was in free fall. And he couldn’t tell if it was joy or terror. “Uhm.”
“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”
“Nooo . . .”
“Don’t panic, this isn’t a proposal. I just wanted to say that . . . I get it now. I kept wondering if I was some kind of masochist, but it wasn’t that. It was this. I think I always saw this.”
“Saw what?”
“You. The boy who rescued butterflies. Unless—” Fen slanted a look at him “—you don’t remember that, either?”
Of course Alfie remembered. He’d made himself look like a right nancy. And his dad had been furious. It was kind of expected you’d get suspended from school occasionally, for fighting, or cheeking a teacher, or playing the wag. But for a butterfly? It’d been beautiful though. This red miracle in a grey place. “It was probably a dare or summin.”
“Oh.”
Except now Fen sounded disappointed. Which was worse than anything.
“I just felt bad for it, alreet?” He sighed. “Don’t think I’ve been brave since.”
Fen wriggled a hand into Alfie’s. “This is brave.”
“Why though?” Alfie shifted so he could see Fen’s face—all pointy and Fen-like and pretty and perfect. “I don’t want to be brave. I just want to be happy.”
Fen squeezed. “Then let’s do that.”
He made everything sound so easy. “I wish I could wrap my head round it.”
“Wrap your head round what?”
“I dunno. There’s all this stuff I still sort of believe about . . . stuff. And I don’t know how to stop.”
“Oh, Alfie, petal.”
Alfie hadn’t been called petal in years. It reminded him not of his mam exactly, but the warm feeling you got after you’d fallen over, and you’d been fussed over and cared for, and you realised that you weren’t really that hurt after all. He blinked, feeling sniffy and prickly.
Fen brought their entwined hands to his mouth—kissed his way across the joints of Alfie’s fingers. “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you can’t be the sort of man you want to be. The sort of man you are.”
Alfie clung a little to Fen’s fingers, feeling pathetic, but not quite able to let go. And far too aware he’d cried his eyes out earlier in the evening. “I dunno what kind of man I am anymore.”
“I do,” said Fen fiercely. “You’re kind and loving and generous and protective and bossy and sexy as hell. You’re going to make someone an amazing husband someday.”
“Sure you aren’t proposing?”
Fen laughed.
“I mean, I wouldn’t mind.”
Fen laughed again. “You must really like fucking me.”
“I really like everything about you.” He sat up, pulling Fen with him. “Don’t you want to?”
“Get married?” Fen sounded so horrified it was almost funny.
“No. I mean, not now. I mean, I would like to get married someday.”
“Well, I believe marriage is a heteronormative construct.”
Alfie rolled his eyes. “You would. But look, you like me and I like you and we like being together. Isn’t that dating? Mebbe a relationship?”
“We’ve known each other less than a week. And for at least some of that week, I really wanted to put your head down the toilet.”
“Actually, we’ve kind of known each other for years.”
“Oh yes.” Fen bit his lip. “All that bullying: a solid foundation of intimacy.”
Alfie did his best to sound neutral. Rather than bleedy. “That a no, then?”
“It’s a . . . I don’t know what it is. Everything’s really complicated right now. And in any case, you’ll be going back to London soon.”
“That’s just logistics. We could figure it out.”
Fen shook his head. “I can’t, Alfie. I’ve got to take care of Pansies.”
“It’s a shop. Not your kid.”
“Yes, well, if it was my kid, Social Services would be taking it away from me on the grounds of neglect bordering on abuse.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be running a flower shop.”
Fen hid his face behind his hands. “Please, don’t. I don’t want to have to think about this now.”
“Shit. Sorry.” Alfie flung an arm over his shoulder and pulled him in tight. “Did I wreck everything?”
“No,” said Fen in a small voice. “But I understand if you don’t want to hang around.”
“Don’t be daft. I’m always going to want to hang around. And I’m sorry I p
ushed.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be what you want.”
Alfie knocked his knee against Fen’s, where they dangled over the edge of the bonnet. “You can be a real doof sometimes, y’know? You’re everything I want. I just thought it’d be nice to be able to say you were my boyfriend, that’s all.”
Fen was quiet for a long time. “I’ll be your boyfriend now,” he whispered. “While we’re here. And I can pretend there’s nothing else in the world but us.”
“What a lucky bloke I am.”
Fen nestled deeper into the crook of Alfie’s arm. Put his head back on Alfie’s shoulder. “I’m so happy with you, Alfie.”
They sat that way for a while, sharing the quiet and the dark and the warmth of each other’s bodies. Time moved at its own pace, measured only in clouds that washed in rough waves across the sky. Eventually, Fen drooped, started, and caught himself with a drowsy murmur.
Alfie steadied him. “Time to get you to bed, sleepyhead.”
He tucked Fen into the passenger seat, noted, with some relief, that the Sagaris appeared to have survived the evening’s, uh, activities, and got behind the wheel. Letting someone else—well, letting Fen—have control of his car hadn’t been terrible. Had been worth it, in fact, for Fen’s pleasure in it. But he was glad to be back where he belonged.
“You want some music?” he asked, as he eased them out of the lane. “Can’t promise you’ll hear much of it over the engine. But you can plug your phone in there.”
“Oh, yes.” Fen yawned. “That’d be nice.”
He was adorably asleep about ten minutes later. But Alfie kept his playlist going anyway—a piece of Fen to keep him company on the way back home. He’d been expecting musicals, but apparently Fen also liked what Alfie privately thought of as “sad woman music.” It wasn’t what he would have chosen to listen to, but it was kind of nice anyway—though he wasn’t entirely sure what was supposed to be so upsetting. Wearing your partner’s favourite sundress was a good thing, wasn’t it?
Fen didn’t even stir when they pulled up outside Pansies. He did a bit when Alfie tugged the front door key out of his pocket and lifted him up. But then he just slid an arm around Alfie’s neck, curled into him, and went straight back to sleep. Let Alfie carry him into Pansies like a new bride.