by Alexis Hall
“Cute.” Alfie turned Fen’s face to his and kissed him gently. Stole the last of his sadness. “Doesn’t have to be now. Just promise me we will.”
“I promise. On Sunday. But, um, for now—” Fen was turning the colour of his hair tips “—can we . . . extend our . . . our deal?”
“Our deal?”
“Yes. The one we made last night. On your car. You know. When we were boyfriends.”
“You mean, you want to be boyfriends again? Or still. Or whatever.”
“Y-yes. For the rest of the week.”
“Course we can, but—”
“Oh God. What?”
“But,” Alfie went on doggedly, “if we’re boyfriends, then I get to take you out proper like.”
“What, you mean dinner and a movie? Alfie, that’s what you do when you want to sleep with someone, not after.”
“Right, yeah, because once you’re going out with someone, there’s no need to make an effort anymore. I should sit at home in my socks, farting.”
Fen giggled. “Well, if those are my options, I’ll take the date.”
“Mebbe we could go to the theatre. You like that, don’t you?”
“In the North East?” Fen wrinkled his nose.
“Oi.” Alfie elbowed him. “Don’t be a southern ponce. There’s Customs House, the Empire, the Theatre Royal. Bet we could find summin.”
“All right, all right. I’ll leave it in your hands.” Fen climbed to his feet. “Now, I think I was promised lasagne?”
“Damn right you were.”
Despite mild confusion over the oven—Fen was right, it had a lot of knobs—Alfie decided dinner was a success. Yes, he would have preferred it if there’d been meat involved, but the tomato sauce was really rich and the cheese, frankly, excessive. And that almost made up for it. As did Fen’s enthusiasm—he ate like a starving wolf, went back for seconds, declared Alfie a kitchen god, and finally collapsed on the sofa. Alfie wrapped up what was left of the lasagne, which wasn’t much, and put it in the fridge. Did the bare minimum of washing up and then plonked himself next to Fen.
“Best boyfriend,” mumbled Fen, rolling into his lap like a sated cat.
Alfie petted him. “You alreet?”
“Food stupor.” He groaned. “Ten out of ten. Would overeat again.”
The evening slipped away very quietly in lazy conversation, though Alfie couldn’t remember exactly what they talked about. Only that Fen made him laugh and made him think and made him feel weirdly comfortable at the same time. And when Fen dozed off, as he inevitably did, Alfie claimed the laptop and went to work.
“You’d better not be doing the accounts,” said Fen, stirring against his knee.
“Naw, just making some bookings.”
“Bookings?”
“Yeah. For tomorrow. For our date.” Alfie couldn’t quite keep the smug note out of his voice. “We’re having dinner at the Salt House.”
“At the what?”
“It’s down Seaburn way.”
“That’s the closest thing we can manage to a restaurant that isn’t a curry place, is it?”
Alfie tweaked the tip of Fen’s nose. “Oi, salt is an important part of our heritage. We were salt traders before we were coal miners.”
“And now we’re all out of jobs because it’s no longer 1862 and industry has kind of moved on a bit.”
“Look, I know it’s not the Ritz, and if we were in London, I’d take you somewhere with a bunch of Michelin stars—”
“I’m sorry,” Fen cut him off. “I was just . . . being a spiky little bitch. Ignore me. It sounds lovely.”
“They do a pie of the day. You can’t get that the Ritz.” Alfie grinned. “And guess what else?”
“Um, they do rhubarb crumble just like Grandma used to make it?”
“There’s a musical on at the Empire.”
Fen perked up so fast he nearly elbowed Alfie in the balls. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Which one?”
“It’s called Legally Blonde.” He paused. “The Musical. That’s how I knew it was a musical.”
There was a long silence.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, there’s kind of musicals and musicals. And anything involving the words ‘The Musical’ puts it in the latter category.”
“Yeah, you just said the same word twice. Oddly enough I’m kind of not illuminated by that.”
“It’s . . . You know the way with books there’s Jane Austen and also A.A. Winters? Well, Existing Intellectual Property: The Musical is, in musical terms, closer to A.A. Winters than Jane Austen.”
“So what’s musical Jane Austen, then?”
“Sondheim, obviously.”
“Some people like A.A. Winters, y’know,” said Alfie, a trifle sullenly.
“Clearly, given he’s constantly on best-seller lists. But that doesn’t mean he’s good.”
“Okay, I get it. You’d rather show off how clever and sophisticated you are than have fun. The Cherry Orchard is on at the Theatre Royal. Want to go see that instead? There’s no singing in it, mind.”
“Yes, I’m aware there’s no singing in The Cherry Orchard.” Fen knelt up. “I’m sorry. I’ve fucked up again, haven’t I?”
Alfie put the laptop aside. Tried to figure out what he was feeling. “It’s not you. I just don’t see why everything has to be compared to London. I mean, all everybody is doing down there is chasing the next new thing. It’s fun. But why’s it more important than the smell of the sea? And having places to go where you get recognised cos they’re yours? I want to be content with what I have. Cos what I have right now—” he slid a hand up Fen’s thigh “—is fucking amazing.”
Fen was gazing at him with that soft, surrendered look he got sometimes. “You’re right.”
“We really don’t have to go.”
“I know.” An odd little smile flickered at the corner of Fen’s lips. “But the truth is, Alfie Bell, nothing would make me happier. I’m just not used to liking South Shields. Please take me to the Salty Kitchen—”
“The Salt House.”
“Yes, there. And then to see Legally Blonde: The Musical. I’d love to go with you.”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather see The Cherry Orchard? It reflects the futility of aristocratic values in the face of bourgeois materialism.”
“No, really—” Fen caught a glimpse of the expression on his face. “Oh, stop teasing me, you bastard.”
Alfie burst out laughing, fully intending to keep teasing, maybe in a more physical fashion. But then the doorbell rang. They stared at each other in surprise.
“I’m not expecting anyone,” said Fen, sounding worried.
“Might just be a door-to-door thing.” Or maybe the parents of the kid he’d nearly beaten up a couple of nights ago, coming for retribution. But there was no way he was scaring Fen with that. “I’ll go.”
Fen scrambled off the sofa. “No way. I’m coming with you.”
It would never before have occurred to Alfie to be . . . not frightened, exactly, he sure as hell wasn’t going to be frightened, but . . . apprehensive, maybe, about opening the front door. He kept telling himself he wasn’t on an episode of Panorama, and probably he wasn’t going to be gay bashed in front of a flower shop, but by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, his heart was still beating so hard he could taste copper at the back of his throat.
With an adrenaline-shaky hand, he unlocked the door and yanked it open. Found Leyla and Peter Brown standing on the step. She was holding some kind of box. He was staring at the ground.
“Erm,” Pete told the pavement, “I know this is weird like.”
“Is this about the van?” asked Fen, squeezing under Alfie’s arm.
“No, no. Van’s fine. This is about . . .” Pete seemed to run out of steam.
Leyla elbowed him. “He’s come to say sorry. For being an ignorant homophobe.”
“I’m norra homophobe.” Pete finally
looked up. “I mean, I don’t really like being around puffs, but I don’t hate them.”
Alfie bristled and opened his mouth to respond, but Fen got in first. “Well, I appreciate it. Thanks for stopping by to let us know.”
“Pete.” Leyla elbowed her husband again.
He shuffled. Went a sort of shiny purple colour. “Erm, yeah. Fen. The reason I threw a hissy fit when you came in today was cos it reminded me of a lot of stuff I’ve felt bad about. I know I was a knobhead to you growing up.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Aye. It wasn’t right. And I’m proper sorry.”
Alfie could feel the tension in Fen’s body. But all he said was, “Thank you. And well done for reducing your violent antipathy towards queers to a mere personal distaste.”
“It wasn’t that. It was cos I was jealous, okay?”
“What?” Fen blinked. “You mean, you wanted to be roughed up by the big boys too?”
“What? Fuck me. No. I’m not like that.”
Leyla, who seemed to be amused by the whole exchange, came to her husband’s rescue. “He’s pretty straight. But people are complicated, so never say never, right?”
“I’m saying never,” protested Pete. “And I was jealous cos you . . . you just did what you wanted. And you never let anyone make you feel bad for it.”
“Oh, believe me. You made me feel pretty bad.”
“Well, you never let anyone stop you, then. When I spent my whole life being stopped.”
Alfie had been pretty close to Pete. Figured he knew the guy pretty well. So this was completely bewildering. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“I know sorry doesn’t mean much. But I am. And I made this to show you.” Pete reached for the box his wife was holding and began easing off the lid. Nestled in the bottom were two pastry swans, their necks forming the shape of a heart, and their wings delicately iced in rainbows.
It was all Alfie could do not to laugh . . . but it was surprise, more than anything.
Fen stared at Pete, wide-eyed. “Did you make these?”
“Aye.”
“They’re beautiful.”
He blushed. “Ta. Always liked it better than cars. But . . . me da, y’know. Would’ve probably killed him. And you better not be sniggering there, Alfie Bell.”
“I’m not. I just had no idea you liked making cakes.”
“And I had no idea you liked sucking cock.”
Fen spread his arms in a peace-making gesture. “And you’re both very talented. So there’s no need to start pissing against lampposts.”
“Leyla thinks I should try to get on that Bake Off,” said Pete, after a moment. “I mean, even if I didn’t win, it’d be summin, wouldn’t it?”
Fen nodded. “You should. You really should.”
“Anyway.” Pete passed the swans awkwardly to Alfie. “We’ve kept you long enough. Leyla will be in touch about the van soon as she can. Oh, and there’s a nice coulis in there, too, for the swans. Just didn’t want ’em to get soggy on the way over.”
Somewhat dazed, Alfie carried the box up to the flat.
“You think you know someone, eh?” he said, as he carefully arranged the swans on a plate and opened the little bottle of raspberry coulis that had, indeed, come with them.
“Careful, Alfie Bell.” Fen braced his hips against the counter. “Bullies in glass houses . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s just kind of . . . summin, isn’t it? The way you know people and don’t know them at all.”
“Isn’t it?” Fen smiled, a little bit sweet, a little bit sardonic. The sort of smile Alfie wanted to kiss from his mouth.
“Do you want to do the honours?”
He passed over the coulis, and Fen poured it out. The swans slipped gracefully across their glistening lake. “They’re so pretty.” He licked a curl of raspberry from his fingertips. “It seems almost a shame to eat them.”
“More of a shame not to.”
Alfie scooped one up and stuffed it into his mouth. Chomped away happily while Fen shrieked and laughed and called him a monster.
21
Fen spent the next day torturing Alfie by explaining—in extreme detail, sometimes with reenactments—exactly what Legally Blonde was about. By the time they stopped for a mid-morning cuppa, the jig was up.
“Blummin’ hell,” groaned Alfie. “It’s a chick flick, isn’t it?”
But it wasn’t that bad. Yes, there wasn’t exactly an equal gender-balance in the audience, and maybe he was just stupid-happy from his pie of the week and his date with Fen, but Alfie quite enjoyed himself. And for all his “there’s musicals and musicals,” Fen seemed pretty into it too. Alfie even caught him humming “Omigod You Guys” in the interval. He tried to tease him about it, but Fen just gave him this too-bright look and said, “This is a feel-good musical, and I am in no position to turn my nose up at feeling good.”
Which made Alfie take his hand—right there, in public. And nothing bad happened at all. Although if holding hands with a bloke was going to be okay anywhere, “in a theatre bar” was probably only just below “in a gay bar.”
Afterwards, they strolled back to the car, still holding hands, with Fen talking animatedly about the differences between the movie and the musical—a subject he had long since abandoned any pretence of having no strong feelings about. Alfie was a bit lost, but it didn’t matter. He just liked listening to Fen, especially when he was all bouncy and excited.
They were passing the Londonderry when a group of lads, three of ’em—who had obviously spent most of the evening inside the pub—came tumbling out. Fen quickened his pace a little and might have pulled his hand away, but Alfie wouldn’t let him. The stares made the back of his neck prickle, though.
“And in the movie,” Fen was saying, like he didn’t quite dare stop, “Emmett is incidental rather than directly inspirational.”
Footsteps behind them.
“I can see why they wanted to centralise him a bit more, but I did feel it interfered with Elle’s agency a bit . . .”
Jeers now. Laughter. A mutter of “Puffs.”
Alfie whirled round. “Just fuck off, okay?”
“Leave it.” Fen tugged at his hand. “They’re not worth it.”
One of them gave a long, derisive “Oooh,” even though Fen had spoken perfectly normally. That was when Alfie realised he wasn’t intimidated or hurt or embarrassed. He was annoyed. Not even angry. Just stubbed-your-toe, tripped-over-something-pointless, ran-out-of-milk annoyed. Like he shouldn’t have to deal with something this stupid.
He strode forwards, hands clenched.
This was apparently more than anyone had bargained for. There was visible uncertainty in the group. Then the smallest of them turned and ran for it.
“Smart move,” growled Alfie, picking up speed.
One of the lads came at him. It was a bit halfhearted, to be honest. Alfie didn’t even need to punch him. Just barged into him and knocked him down. Gave him a kick on the way past. Left him curled up on the pavement like a slug. His mate had retreated against a wall. Alfie grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the bricks.
“You starting summin?”
The guy swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “N-no.”
“You sure?”
“We were just having a laugh.”
“Then you need to work on your sense of humour, mate.” Alfie shoved his captive again. Considered lamping him one, then thought better of it. “Cos you just got your arse handed to you by a puff.”
He let the lad go. Watched him ooze wheezily down the wall.
Then ambled back to Fen. “Come on, pet. Let’s get out of here.”
“Oh my God.” The moment they were round the corner, Fen pulled up sharp and whacked him in the chest. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”
Alfie blinked. “Did I do summin wrong?”
“You can’t keep starting fights.” Another whack. “I don’t want a boyfriend I
have to visit in hospital.” A third. “Or in prison.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Alfie caught Fen’s flying hands. “Calm it doon. I can handle myself.”
“Against five? Or seven? Or a knife?”
“Well, mebbe not then, but—”
Fen’s eyes were wet, although he still seemed mostly furious. “It doesn’t matter how strong you think you are, or how manly. If someone wants to hurt you for being a pussy-boy fag, they can and they will.”
And now he got it. Fen was scared. Scared for Alfie in a way he’d never been for himself.
“Alreet,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do that again.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
At last, Fen nodded. “Fine.” He took a deep breath. “If you’ve promised and you mean it—”
“I mean it. Jesus, mate. What do you want me to do, cross my heart and hope to die?”
“In which case—” Fen melted into Alfie “—it’s okay for me to find you incredibly hot right now.”
They kissed, kind of ferociously, like Alfie was a pastry swan and Fen was really in the mood for patisserie. He got his tongue into all the corners of Alfie’s mouth, less of an exploration than a full-scale occupation, really. A claiming. He tasted faintly of vanilla from the ice cream he’d had at the interval. Left Alfie tender and tingling and sporting a pretty major stiffie in the middle of Sunderland.
Fen grabbed his hand again and dragged him into the alley down the side of a pub.
“Um. Where we going?”
The only answer he got was a toothy grin. And then he was being bundled up against a wheelie bin—which smelled rank—and Fen was sliding to his knees onto a piece of cardboard spread over the dirty cobbles.
Alfie, who’d always thought himself pretty worldly, was simultaneously shocked, and shocked that he was shocked. “Oh my God, you can’t.”
“Watch me.”
Fen’s hands slid up his thighs. Yanked his belt undone and jeans open. Alfie had a split second to be self-conscious about his knob hanging out, before Fen swallowed him down like a python. And . . . oh . . . fucking . . . God . . . this was some porno-quality cocksucking. He had to brace one hand against the wall to stop himself from keeling over. Jam his knuckles in his mouth to stop from groaning. This was sex without subtlety—just a hot mouth wrapped round his cock, the dark, convulsing tunnel of Fen’s throat. It looked gloriously obscene too. Fen’s eyes were half-closed, a concentration-crease standing out between them, his cheeks hollow and his lips stretched tight around Alfie’s cock. And the sounds . . . maybe it was just because he was nervous—though nervous in a way that, if anything, made what was happening even more exciting—but he was pretty sure they should’ve been able hear those wet, sucking, undeniably fleshly noises all the way back in South Shields.