Quinn left two days ago, though he returned to the flat later, after I'd gone to work; leastways I noticed that quite a few of his clothes were gone when I got home from work in the wee hours of the morning. I don't know when or if he'll be back; don't know much really. I know that he was entirely justified in leaving. I've no one to blame but myself.
I suppose I'd better start at the beginning, hadn't I? Very well. The move went off without a hitch almost two months ago now. Nicky handled it much better than I would have thought; I think he had been expecting it. Even helped shift some of my things around the day we did the actual moving, though he complained a hell of a lot and Quinn had to sweeten him up with a full breakfast. Still, as moves go, it was relatively painless.
I'd started applying for postgraduate courses even before the big day; it seemed easier than listening to Quinn go on about it and in a way I really wanted to go back to uni too, just never thought I'd get the opportunity. The new flatmate was a bit of a shocker though. Nicky found Maggie and offered her the room pretty much without consulting us. Mind you, I'd offered Quinn his room without consulting Nicky, so I guess we were even, more or less.
I've a fair idea why he chose her to begin with. Let's just say that Nicky can be quite superficial when it comes to tits and arse. He's never admitted as much of course, claimed all he was doing was making sure there'd be at least one other person living in the flat who wouldn't end up shagging his flatmates—though I think he had high hopes of shagging her himself eventually.
Well, tempting fate like that's bound to bite you in the arse, innit? Maggie showed no interest in him whatsoever, no matter how much he preened and showed off and generally behaved like a complete and utter prat. I was rather amused by the whole thing to tell you the truth. Quinn on the other hand hated Maggie at first sight. Well, hate's a pretty strong word, how about 'actively disliked'? The only explanation he offered was that he thought she was sizing me up and I laughed in his face when he finally came out with that one. Can you imagine? A chit actually fancying me?
Fine, I know, I know, it's been known to happen before, but not very often and quite frankly anybody who looks like Maggie—well, let's just say I found the idea itself utterly ludicrous. Just goes to show, don't it? Should have trusted Quinn.
Mind you, she must have sussed out within two seconds of meeting us what was going on. See, we thought Nicky was going to be out for a while and were... occupied when he decided to bring her on over. So Nicky comes into the flat shouting something or other about having found us a new flatmate and whatnot, what choice did we have? We got decent—more or less—in a hurry and made our way into the sitting room looking ever so slightly disheveled. Didn't help that we couldn't stop touching either... well, you go and try to stop in the heat of things and see how well you manage to keep your hands off your lover.
Not that I'm entirely sure I've got a lover anymore. Shit. Ought to stop thinking about that now before I start bawling again. Yeah, I would've thought that one obvious: men cry, we just try to get on with it in private when nobody's around to take in the show. Haven't done much else these last couple of days except phone in sick a half-hour before I'm supposed to go to work.
Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself again. So Maggie moved in, Nicky behaved like a complete and utter idiot trying to impress her, and Quinn had green smoke curling out of his ears on account of the jealousy. Lovely. Just what I always wanted.
Except—and here's the kicker—Quinn was right about one thing: she was sizing me up. I started noticing about a week or so after everyone else that she was checking me out and I kind of enjoyed it in a way. It's not as if I've ever been all that popular with the ladies. It was flattering in the extreme to have a chit—especially a looker such as Maggie—fawn all over me and I suppose I did lead her on a little bit more than I should have.
It was harmless really. I was just flirting with her a little more than was absolutely necessary—basking in the attention you might say—but it was harmless. Just my blooming luck really that the minute I come to some sort of conclusion about who I am and what I like—Quinn—some chit starts showing an interest in me. Made me question that whole shagging blokes business too, I'm ashamed to admit.
Don't get me wrong. I still loved Quinn, loved pounding him into the mattress—and did so frequently, I might add—but it did make me think that maybe things weren't quite as clear-cut as I thought they were. I obviously was still working the ladies and in a way I wanted to test that theory, wanted to see whether I could still get it up for a chit even with the whole queerness angle to consider. It was stupid, alright? Maggie brought out the fifteen-year-old in me.
I wasn't going to do anything about it I think. I'm almost entirely sure I wouldn't have done anything... but she wouldn't really take no for an answer. No matter how often I kissed Quinn in front of her—liberal application of tongue and all—she kept on making eyes at me. So I got stupid. Let her corner me in the kitchen the other day.
Christ, I'm making it sound as if it were all her fault. I'm such a twat! It really was my fault as much as hers—there, I'm man enough to admit that at least. So yeah, I was flirting with her some and being quite cheeky at that and next thing I know she's got me backed up against the kitchen wall. I should have said no then. I could have said no then. I didn't though. Didn't say a thing because in some strange way I wanted whatever was about to happen to happen. Wanted to make sure I could still work the ladies.
So she kissed me. I knew the second our lips actually touched that it was wrong. You kiss Quinn once, you'll never want to kiss anyone again, least of all some chit. It felt wrong: too soft, too wet, too not-Quinn. The whole thing couldn't have lasted more than thirty seconds, forty-five on the outside, then I pushed her away.
Problem is, that was about thirty seconds too long, because when I got around to pushing her away, I saw Quinn standing in the doorway. He didn't say a word. Just looked me straight in the eye for a few seconds, and on the whole, I think I'd have preferred some screaming and shouting just about then. I'd have preferred just about anything to the look in his eyes.
He didn't say anything though. Just turned around and started walking down the hallway again. I ran after him—give me some credit here—started rambling, trying to explain how it was a mistake, how it didn't mean anything, how it was all a terrible misunderstanding. He stopped dead in his tracks at that. Turned around to face me and said, "sticking your tongue down some chit's throat is hardly ever counted as a misunderstanding Rob. Not where I come from. Can't abide cheating. Arrangements yes, but not messing without permission. There's very few things I can't look past, but that is one of them."
"Quinn please, let me explain," I said weakly.
"Don't make things worse by trying to come up with some silly excuse," he replied. "I'll talk to you later—much later."
He started walking towards the door again and I grabbed his arm, tried to hold him back, "Quinn, please, I didn't mean to... I love you."
"Leave me the fuck alone," he shouted, shaking my hand off his arm.
So I did. Watched him walk out the door. Just about made it to our room before I started bawling my eyes out. I expected him to come back, if not by the time I left for work then at least by the time I got home at one in the morning. I suppose he did come back, only not quite in the way I intended. He came back to collect his clothes, nothing more.
I've a terribly feeling I screwed up again. I should have gone after him, shouldn't I? 'Leave me the fuck alone' doesn't really mean that at all. It's a test of sorts and I think I failed it.
A knock on the door jolts me out of my misery. Nicky doesn't wait for the customary invite; well, he's a rude bugger, isn't he? He just opens the door and strides into the room as if he owned the place.
"You're going to tell me what the hell is going on?" He asks. "I don't think I can take much more of the moping and dramatic sighing without spewing up."
He also has all the grace and tact of certain members of the royal family—Prince Philip for instance. I sigh dramatically, more to irk him than out of an actual need to sigh and say, "there was a... misunderstanding."
"Oh really? You don't say!" He exclaims sarcastically. "I never would have guessed what with loverboy having been gone two days. Most couples have tiffs Rob. The approved method for dealing with them is to go and apologize for whatever was said and get on with things, not mope around the house annoying your flatmates and calling in sick for work every day."
"I don't know that apologizing is going to work in this case," I sigh again; it must be driving Nicky batty by now.
Nicky runs his hands through his hair in frustration and slumps back against the wall. "Just what in god's name did you do Rob?"
I fidget for a bit avoiding his eyes. I know full well I'm being silly now; this is Nicky, my best mate. Nicky lived through the aftermath of Patti after all—fuck knows why he put up with that—and while he certainly didn't approve of the whole shagging-blokes-business, he's always taken my side when it mattered. That's what best mates are for, right?
Oh well, here it goes, "Maggie kissed me." Ah, displaying amazing reserves of courage again, aren't we? Not as if it doesn't take two to kiss successfully—though that kiss was anything but. That's right Rob, go on and blame the girl just so you have something else to feel guilty about.
"She kissed you? Are we talking a peck on the cheek or..." Nicky gestures vaguely.
"No we're talking full-blown tongues and everything kiss; maybe a little bit of groping as well before I pushed her away," I sigh. "I did push her away, you'll be pleased to hear, just not nearly soon enough."
"How was it?" Oh, leering Nicky, there's a sight I haven't seen in a while. For some reason he refuses to leer at Quinn and me.
"Wrong," I shrug.
"So why did you do it," he asks. Got to love those straightforward questions, don't you?
"Because I'm an idiot," I reply. "Because she had me backed up against the wall and it seemed easier than... alright, mostly because I wanted to know whether I can still you know... with a girl. And because I'm an idiot."
"She had you backed up against the wall?" Nicky asks incredulously.
"Sort of. I mean, it's not as if I couldn't have gotten away if I'd wanted to, but... I guess there was no polite way of getting out of it..." I shrug again. Don't really want to blame Maggie for everything because I know I was involved too.
"Hang on a second will you," Nicky says standing up straight. "I won't be a moment. Want me to bring you back a beer?"
I nod and lean back against the headboard of the bed as Nicky exits the room. Well, a few seconds turn into minutes and those minutes start dragging on. I'm starting to think that he forgot all about me—or chose to forget all about me, the paranoid voice at the back of my head interjects. It's not as if I've much to do though apart from counting the chips in the paint on the ceiling. There are rather a lot of them. Once I've exhausted that option I start counting prime numbers to distract myself—and isn't it odd that I still remember all prime numbers up to a thousand?
I'm just about to give up and nod off—it's getting dark outside and I can't be bothered to turn on the light—when Nicky comes back into the room carrying a couple of bottles of beer. He hands one to me and flops down on the bed besides me. That's odd somehow, now that I think of it; he hasn't done that since... yeah, he stopped doing that once he found out about Quinn and me, probably thought I'd try it on given half the chance.
He takes a long pull from the bottle and just sits there for a few minutes while I contemplate mine. Finally he says, "I just gave Maggie notice."
"You did what?" I ask bewildered.
"I gave her notice," he shrugs. "Told her she had to move by the end of the month because it wasn't working out."
"Wasn't working out for you, you mean," I say gruffly. "That must be the first time in the ten years I've known you that you didn't get into the chit's knickers somehow."
"You're a prat Rob," he replies calmly. "I gave her notice because Quinn isn't likely to come back while she's here. Give me some credit, would you? Occasionally I do really act in the best interests of others."
"Why?" I ask like a complete idiot, just to prove his point.
"Because as much as it pains me to say it, the two of you really were made for each other," Nicky mutters. "You are nauseatingly sweet together and bugger me if this isn't the healthiest relationship you've ever managed to have."
I quirk an eyebrow at that. "Thanks, but no thanks Nicky, you really aren't my type."
He punches me in the shoulder for that. Not hard enough to cause any real damage, but probably hard enough to bruise. "I wasn't propositioning you, tosser. I'm just trying to convince you to use that much-lauded brain of yours and get yourself down to that hospital already. Grovel a bit. Hell, grovel a lot, he'll like that. Just don't come back here unless the two of you are going to be keeping me awake all night with the... whatever it is you do to cause noise like that."
There's a reason Nicky's been my best friend for ten years.
I'm up bright and early—well, early for me at any rate—the next morning. I'm showered and shaved and generally looking presentable and hopefully ever-so-slightly sexy by about nine, making my way to the hospital in search of one Quinn Matheson. I'm quite prepared to take Nicky's advice and grovel a bit, or a lot if need be, but I'd rather just apologize and use my many charms—hah! who am I deluding?—to convince Quinn to come home.
I step up to the nurses' station and politely ask for Quinn.
"Quinn? He's not here dear," the forty-something clerk says in a thick Jamaican accent.
"What do you mean he's not here?" I ask somewhat bewildered. "He's scheduled to work this morning."
The clerk gives me a long-suffering look and says, "he was scheduled to work this morning, but he's not on account of having taken time off for a family emergency. Won't be back for another week at least."
Fan-fucking-tastic. The bastard! He knew that this was the first place I'd come looking, so he made up some sort of family emergency in order to get time off. Fuck, he's really serious about not wanting to see me, isn't he? Shitty-shitty-shit-shit. I really should have gone after him, better yet, shouldn't have let him leave the flat in the first place.
'Course all the self-flagellation in the world won't help now. He's gone, god only knows where, clearly doesn't want me to find him, and there's nowhere else I can think of to look for him either. I walk out of the hospital in a daze and stand outside in the drizzle rather dejectedly, trying to figure out what to do next.
I must have been stood there for a full five minutes when a medic comes up behind me and says, "were you looking for Quinn? You're his..." he quirks an eyebrow.
"Lover, yeah," I reply ruefully. "Or at least I was until a few days ago, don't know if I still am."
"Figured as much," he says. "He did that last time too. Took a couple of weeks off when everything went pear-shaped. Look, I don't know what happened and I don't really want to know, but I've a fair idea where he will be tonight, leastways he's been there every night these past few days."
"Where?" I ask.
He tells me the name of a club in Soho. I'm vaguely aware of the club's existence but I've never been. "Thanks," I say.
"No problem mate," he replies. "You'll want to dress up a bit for it though. If things don't work out between you and Quinn, the name's Timothy. You can usually find me at there Friday and Saturday nights unless I'm working." Then he goes back inside the building.
I walk away more than a little confused. I think he was coming onto me.
I actually go to work, partly because if I call in sick much longer I might well find myself out of a job and partly because I've time to kill until evening and it'll pass quicker if I'm suitably distracted. Uhm, yeah, so the distraction business works the other way around really. At least I don't think I've ever mixed up so many drink orders before. I'm preoccupied I guess, and more than a touch nervous, not only about what I'll be saying to Quinn, but also about going to that kind of club.
When my shift's finally over, I get changed in the storage room of the pub. I did take the advice I was given by that Timothy bloke. Not that I wouldn't have dressed decently for the occasion anyway—after all, the object of the exercise is to get Quinn back and looking handsome never hurt anybody, did it?—but I'm dressing up a little bit more than I usually would.
I ended up asking Nicky for advice. Strange, I know, but Nicky can be a smart dresser when he feels like it; it's almost eerie that it's me who's the homosexual—see? I can say that now, or at least I can think it without blushing too badly—because Nicky's got all the stereotypes down pat, like the excellent dress sense, the worrying about his hair incessantly, the hard body, and the random questions about whether I think he's getting fat, while I'm a slob for the most part.
So anyway, I asked Nicky to help pick out the outfit. After he'd stopped doubling over with laughter—and that took a while, let me tell you—he was actually quite helpful. Even lent me a pair of leather pants a couple of sizes too small for me—god knows how I'll ever be able to peel those off again. He picked out the shirt too, after dismissing just about all of my choices as being too plain; a burgundy fake-velvet shirt, way too tight, that practically screams queer.
I tried to protest that choice, really I did. Said I wasn't going to walk around the East End on my way to Soho looking like Quentin Crisp because that was just asking for a beating. He told me to button up my coat until I got to Soho. Then I tried that feeble excuse about not wearing red shirts... Well, to make a long story short, Nicky called me a disgrace to punk in general and told me I'd watched way too much Star Trek when I was an impressionable teenager—he might've had a point there too.
By the time I finish changing and set off for Soho it's gone half eleven. Not that I think the club I'm going to is the sort of place that starts rocking properly, so to speak, until after the pubs close. Still, I'm a tad apprehensive to say the least. Don't open up my coat until I'm standing right in front of the bouncer—yeah, it's the type of club that has a bouncer, though he'd probably prefer being called a doorman.
He gives me a quick once over and then steps aside to let me in. There's a coat-check, for which I'm more than a little grateful. I hand over the exorbitant cover charge to the boy at the counter—and he's quite handsome, I can't help noticing—and then I step into the club proper to be hit by what I can only assume is a bad case of complete and utter culture shock.
'Course I was aware that there's a fair number of queer clubs in London, but Quinn's never actually taken me to one. I'm assuming it's because he figured I'd be totally out of sorts and more than a little shocked, which isn't too far from the truth. There are men, a lot of them, dancing with each other. There are quite a few making out quite fervently too and not all of them in the darker corners. I'm suddenly quite glad I let Nicky pick the clothes; I'd feel rather out of place in my usual gear.
I pull myself together some and step up to the bar. Order some sort of frou-frou import beer—I'm really not paying too much attention to what I'm doing—and start scanning the club for Quinn. I get sidetracked a few times by a particularly energetic couple and I'm rather surprised to discover that it's a bit of a turn-on. I mean, yeah, Quinn makes me hard half the time just looking at him, but I never thought I'd be particularly turned on by watching two other blokes at it. Seems I was wrong. It might be time for a little daytime trip down here to discreetly sample some porn of the male variety. Girlie mags never did much for me, but I've an inkling as to why exactly that was.
I feast my eyes on the picture in front of me for a little while; almost forget completely why I came down here to start with. I'm vaguely aware of some eyes to my right boring into me, somebody is really checking me out over there and I'm doing my best to ignore him. It's nice to know that somebody besides Quinn is interested in me, but that's not why I'm here. I'm flattered though, considering my track record; seems that if I'd actually tried this whole queer business a few years earlier instead of mooning after unattainable chits, I mightn't have been so lonely.
Yeah, what was the reason you came here again Rob? It wasn't for the scenery, surely? That's right! Today's mission, should I choose to accept it, is to track down my miserable hurt lover and grovel and cajole and beg for as long as it takes to convince him to come home. Christ, I really do watch too much telly. Right, trying to find Quinn again.
The music changes to something slow-ish and about halfway through the song I finally spot him, draped around some bloke I've never seen before. Technically, I guess, what they're doing is slow dancing, though it looks an awful lot like foreplay to me. Fuck. Shut up Rob, you're the last person that should be getting jealous right about now. Try to behave like a grown-up for once. It's not as if you're totally faultless in this entire mess.
Right. Behaving like an adult. Check. I take a long swig from the beer to calm myself a little and then make my way slowly across the dancefloor. I'm quite polite about it, really, just tab that other bloke on the shoulder and ask, "may I cut in?"
Quinn's eyes bulge out of their sockets alarmingly. "Fuck Rob, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," I reply softly. "May I have this dance?"
He hesitates for a second, but then he shrugs and nods and wraps his arms loosely around my shoulders—and thank you mum for making me take those dreadful dancing lessons when I was a lad. It's different though. He's not holding me as closely as he held that other bloke he was dancing with—keeping a proper distance you might say—and that hurts. Quite a bit.
I carefully lay my head down upon his shoulder and sigh. "I miss you."
"Yeah, I know," he whispers. "Miss you too."
"Nicky's told me not to bother coming home tonight unless you come too and we keep him awake all night with all sorts of interesting noises," I say. That's pretty close to saying, 'please come home with me,' innit?
"He's turned into quite the matchmaker, hasn't he?" Quinn chuckles.
"Terrible," I reply. "I'm sorry. Will you come home please?"
He doesn't say anything to that, just continues dancing with me for a few minutes, although it seems to me at least that he's drawing me a little closer and I guess that's progress of a sort.
When the track finishes he takes a step back but doesn't let go of me completely and I suppose I should be grateful for the little bits. He's not rejecting me outright. "Let's go have a seat over there so's we can talk for a while, alright?" He suggests.
I shrug somewhat sullenly. Don't want to talk all that much. I just want to go home really and quite possibly make love for hours and hours after that, but I don't think that's in the cards somehow, so talking it might well be.
I follow him to a small table in the corner and slump down in the chair. He settles in opposite me and quirks an eyebrow. Ah! That'd be my cue, the part were I start groveling, as Nicky suggested none-too-gently. Have I mentioned I hate groveling? Still, if groveling is what it takes...
"Quinn, it was a mistake, nothing happened..." I begin.
"Didn't look like nothing to me," he interrupts gruffly.
"Yeah, I know. She kissed me, alright? That was all," I sigh. "I may have kissed back for a few moments there, but it didn't feel right because it wasn't you. It's never going to happen again, I promise. 'sides, we gave her notice. She's moving out."
"What about the next girl who takes a shine to you Rob?" He asks. "I can't compete with girls—don't have the right equipment."
"You don't need to compete with girls," I say quietly.
"Don't particularly want to compete with other blokes either," he mumbles. "I don't have an issue with playing, mind, I've an issue with you going behind my back... if you want to play..."
I'm not entirely sure what he means by that, but I let it slide. This isn't the right time to ask silly questions. Instead I move my hand to rest above his. "You're not going to have to compete with anyone Quinn. There's no one else I want," I say with all the conviction I can muster—and that's quite a lot of conviction as it happens; I've never been as sure of anything before. "I want you. Only you. I'd... hell, if it were possible I'd be on my knees right now asking you to make it official..."
He smiles at that. First time I've seen him smile all night. "Well, now that you're here, would you care for another dance?"
"I'd love to," I reply and before I know it he's pulling me up and leading me back to the dance floor. It's not an answer as such—I've a feeling that one will be some time in coming—but this time his whole body is pressed to mine and I'm damn certain the poor tosser he was dancing with before, if he's still around, is thinking the same thing I thought when I saw them earlier: this isn't dancing so much as it is foreplay.
It's nice, the dancing I mean. Not my kind of music, but that's alright, so long as Quinn is there holding me. "Quinn?" I ask.
"Hmmm?"
"Why have we never done this before?"
He pulls me closer. "Because what you call music is an abomination?" He chuckles. "You try dancing to that, you'll hurt yourself before too long."
I pout at that. Quinn doesn't hold the monopoly on pouting. I may not be in the Quinn-league of pouting, but I'm learning. "Didn't mean just the dancing," I mumble. "Why've you never taken me to a place like this before."
"Didn't think you'd want to come," he sighs. "Look around yourself. I reckon there's not many blokes here who aren't one hundred percent sure about who and what they are and they're not afraid to show it. You're still not-"
"No, I am," I interrupt. "If there's one thing I'm sure of right now that's it Quinn. That's about the only good thing that came out of this whole mess; kissing her felt like kissing a wet fish."
"Maybe she was a bad kisser," Quinn smiles.
"So every girl I've ever kissed was a bad to mediocre kisser?" I ask. "I did what I thought I was supposed to do, kissed them, even fucked them when they let me, but it never felt like... it was just what I was supposed to do;, so I did it, probably not all that well."
"What's so different now?" He asks and there's no malice behind it. If it were anyone else I'd second-guess the question. I'd think that what they were suggesting is that I fuck him because he lets me, that I sleep with him because it's what I'm supposed to do in exchange for a warm body and a warmer smile and somebody who'll watch horrible B-movies with me. Not Quinn though; he genuinely wants to know the difference—unless I'm totally deluding myself and being overly romantic again.
"Everything's different," I whisper nuzzling his neck. "With you I'm about ready to come in my pants every time you kiss me. Hell, I'm half-ready to come every time you look at me."
"That's lust Rob," he replies quietly.
"Maybe," I say tightening my grip around his waist. "The love part is the bit where I don't want to go to sleep at night without you, the bit where I agree to eat something that has carrots in it because you cooked it, the bit where I offer to go and get milk for your tea when it's pissing down with rain outside."
He doesn't say anything but his body edges closer to mine. I press my groin closer to his, let him feel just how serious I am, and I can feel that he's half-hard too. Christ I've missed him. "Can I kiss you Quinn?"
He nods his head slightly and turns his face to meet mine. It isn't the best kiss we've ever shared in terms of skill or intensity, it's a bit too tentative for that, but it's still one I'll always remember. It's sweet and almost chaste—well, probably right up there on the list of the chastest kisses we're capable of, but chasteness is a matter of perspective, innit? I doubt that a nun would call it that—and we both pour a lot of desire and insecurity into it. It's over much too soon.
"You know, it's funny," I say, "but while I was changing in the storage room of the pub, getting all dressed up to woo you back, I was thinking and I was thinking of myself as a homosexual. Actually used that word in my head when I'd never used it before at all and it didn't bother me. I'm fine with it, really. I'm queer, so what? I don't even care if people find out anymore—well, let's try not to have the regulars at the pub find out because that has the potential of turning violent right quick—but anyone else I don't care about anymore. I went by the hospital this morning looking for you and this medic, Timothy, he asked me whether I was your, well, he never really finished the sentence, but I said 'lover' without even thinking about it..."
"Rob, you're babbling," Quinn laughs quietly. "It's alright, I believe you. You're queer, always have been; it just took you a few years more than most to realize it... hey, did Timothy come onto you?"
I blush a little at that. Well, yeah, I might be all with the program and comfortable with the entire liking blokes business, but them checking me out is still somewhat of a novelty—or at least I'd never noticed before. They were probably checking me out all along and I was blissfully oblivious. "Yeah, I think he might've been," I stutter, "and I'm pretty sure there was some bloke at the bar earlier who was giving me the once-over too."
"That's because you're hot," Quinn smiles. "Hot and all mine."
"I am?" I ask. He's never really said that before. I mean, yeah, he asked me to be his lover back when I still had my head up my own arse far enough so's I couldn't tell, but he's never actually straight out and told me we were exclusive before.
"Yeah, you are," he replies and kisses my temple.
We move to the music a little while longer, wrapped around each other so tight it'd take a crowbar to prise us apart. "Quinn?"
"Hmmm?"
"Do you think we could go down to Trafalgar Square in a bit?" I ask.
"Why do you want to go there?" He replies more than a little puzzled.
I move my lips along his neck until they're only a fraction from his ear. "I want to make out under Nelson's column."
"Ooooh, sex in public, is that a new kink?" He chuckles.
I sigh happily. "No, it's a promise."
By the time we make it down to Trafalgar Square it's gone three in the morning and there aren't all that many people around, not counting the odd bag lady, and that's a good thing really. I know the whole making out underneath Nelson's column thing was my idea—and I do want to, I really do—but I'm not entirely sure I'm quite ready yet to do it in broad daylight. So call me a wimp if you must, I've never even made out with a chit underneath Nelson's column in broad daylight... you might say I'm somewhat of a virgin to defiling national monuments.
That sounded really bad, didn't it?
Anyway, so I lead Quinn up to the middle of the square to a spot nicely overlooked by the admiral. It's not immediately below the column because we'd be in shadow there and besides, Lord Nelson wouldn't get a good view of the show now, would he? No, it's the middle of the square in the light of the street lamps and the spotlights where anyone who happens to be driving up Whitehall is likely to get an eye-full as well, and I kiss him.
Don't know that 'kiss' is actually a strong enough word for what I do. Yeah, there's tongues involved and everything, but I've also got my hands on his arse, kneading almost painfully, and I'm rubbing my groin to his, trying to pour all my desire and pent-up energy into that kiss. His hands are stroking me back and one of his thighs pushes between my legs. Alright, alright, there may be some dry-humping involved.
Quinn does draw the line at public nudity though, it would seem, because when I try to squeeze one hand between our bodies to undo his trousers, he slaps my hand away. Christ, never thought I'd get one over on him like that—apparently there's a few things even Quinn isn't prepared to do just yet.
When we finally break apart to catch our breath he's flushed and panting hard. He leans down so his forehead is resting against mine and says, "well, I've got to hand it to you; didn't actually think you'd go through with it."
"Yeah, but I did and it wasn't so hard either," I tease. "How about we try that in front of the palace tomorrow, see if we can manage to make those guards squirm just a little bit?"
He laughs at that. "More likely the constabulary is going to arrest us for public indecency."
"Do you think they'd let us share a cell," I leer. "I've a feeling you'd rather like clinging to those bars while I fuck you into next week."
"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," he chuckles. "The iron bedstead does just fine for me, thank you."
"Fine. I guess I'll just have to make do with that then," I grin. "What say we go home and give Nicky his heart's desire by keeping him up all night with those noises we make that he doesn't really like thinking about to closely."
Quinn takes a small step back and takes my hand. "Let's go sit over there for a moment," he says, suddenly much more serious. "I should like to talk about that."
I get a funny feeling in my belly just about then, caused by a sense of foreboding. I thought we were fine; dancing half the night in that club and then making out in public. Things were going well, weren't they? I let him lead me to a bench at the end of the square and sit down at his invitation. He sits down next to me, never letting go of my hand but not scooting up as close as he could either.
"I'm not coming back with you tonight Rob," he says quietly. Might as well have driven a serrated knife through my gut and twisted it around a few times. That would have hurt less.
"Why? I thought we were fine," I stammer. "I thought..." don't rightly know what I think anymore. I can't be as bad as that at reading him, can I?
"Yeah, we're fine, or at least well down the road to fine," he says squeezing my hand.
"Then why don't you want to come home," I ask petulantly.
Quinn sighs. "Two reasons. The first is that if I went back with you now, we'd be shagging about five minutes after we got to the flat and I don't want to do that just yet."
"You're still angry with me, aren't you?" I blurt out. Great going there Rob, ten out of ten for style!
"No, not angry," he replies. "I stopped being angry about five minutes after I ran out the door. I'm still hurt though and you can't just expect to fix that over a couple of drinks and some slow dancing. Right now I could put out I suppose, even enjoy it to a certain extent, but it'd just make it worse tomorrow morning when the hot and bothered has worn off a bit. I need to be sure that this isn't just about you getting a leg over."
"I'm not just using you, you've got to believe that," I say. Yeah, I can be perceptive at times, 'specially when I've been whapped upside the head with the verbal equivalent of a mallet.
"I do," he says. "I just need a little bit of time and effort. I want you to do it properly Rob, not just a 'sorry, I'll never do it again.' Want you to persuade me that you are totally committed to us and that this is what you want and that I can trust you blind. I need that."
I nod. I guess I kind of deserve that. "You said there were two reasons. What's the second?" I ask.
"I'm not going back until she's gone," he shrugs. "Don't particularly want to explore my talents in a catfight."
"She wouldn't-"
"No," he interrupts, "but I would."
"Where are you staying?" I ask.
"With an old friend," he replies.
"The one you were dancing with earlier?"
He nods.
I swallow hard a few times. Don't know whether I should ask it really, it's none of my business and it's not as if I'm in any position to start making demands—have I mentioned I appear to be of the jealous persuasion? "When you were dancing, you looked like..." fuck, is there any way of asking this without sounding like a complete and utter pillock? "You and him, were you..."
"A long time ago, yeah," he smiles. "Must be close to ten years now."
"Oh."
"Rob, look at me," he says turning my face to his. "That was a long, long time ago. You've nothing to worry about now."
I guess I don't look all that convinced because his smile fades slightly and his lips press together a little harder than they should. "I don't cheat Rob," he says quietly.
Ouch. I guess I deserved that too. I try to relax, try to smile a little to defuse the situation, lean in close until our shoulders are brushing. "Sorry," I mutter. "I wasn't thinking right."
"Too right you weren't," he says. "It's kind of charming though, in a sick and twisted way. You're actually jealous! I guess there's hope after all."
"No need to take the piss," I mumble. He doesn't say anything to that, just sits there for a few minutes, letting me rest my head on his shoulder.
"I'll give you the phone number, alright?" He says when I start to yawn. "You can call me tomorrow and tell me where you're taking me for dinner."
"I'm taking you for dinner?" I ask bewildered.
Quinn chuckles. "Yeah, you're taking me for dinner—somewhere nice, mind, not the chippies—and afterwards you're taking me to the movies and if dinner goes well, I'll even sit in the back row with you."
I grin at that. Takes me back to when I was a lad. There's only one reason you'd sit in the back row of the cinema. I'm starting to look forward to this date—oh god, I'm going on a date. I'm going on a date with Quinn. What will I wear? Oh fuck, I really am queer, aren't I?
First thing next morning I call into work and explain that I've a family emergency. What? You thought that Quinn was the only one who could pull that stunt? Besides, my sex-life is at stake here, which ranks as a pretty big emergency in my book. Alright, alright, my love life is at stake too, which is an even bigger emergency. Go on, call me a sap, but I'd do without the sex just so long as Quinn came home so I wouldn't have to sleep by myself.
Nicky gets roped into the whole clothing dilemma and I do believe he's rather starting to enjoy himself. He flicks through my side of the wardrobe dismissing each garment as being too plain or too yobbish or simply not good enough for a 'hot date.' His words, not mine. Though he keeps on yapping about how it's really all in aid of getting his cooking service back before he starts to waste away... yeah, he's a hopeless romantic. How could you tell?
At any rate, eventually I leave the flat wearing another pair of Nicky's trousers and some god-awful green satin shirt mum got me a couple of Christmases ago that I never thought I'd wear in public but that I've been unable to give to Oxfam because, well, she's me mum, right? Nicky's waxing on rather flowery about how the shirt will match Quinn's eyes just so and I just figure I'd better escape before he starts spouting poetry. Well, have you ever listened to a physicist spouting poetry? It's bloody frightening, that's what it is.
He shouts something about it being customary to get flowers before the door bangs shut and I am mercifully alone and away from that headcase. Christ, I've never known Nicky to be so excited about me going on a date before. I didn't really expect it, not with the way he initially felt about the whole shagging blokes business, and I'm seriously starting to wonder whether I crossed into a different dimension at some point. Ought to ask Nicky about that, what with him being the physicist. Except I just know what his answer'd be; it's only ever tricky from the fifth to about the thirteenth dimension, he'd say, after that you've got enough dimensions that no matter how tangled up they get with each other, you'll be able to separate them out again somehow...
OK, I'm stalling. I'm quite aware I'm stalling. I mean, dimensional theory must be a lot more exciting than my first date with Quinn, right? Right? Oh, alright then, on with the story.
I make my way down to the Westend, which is where Quinn's ex-lover-with-the-pots-of-money-if-he-can-afford-a-flat-here lives—no, I'm not jealous at all, whatever gave you that idea?—and I even remember to get some flowers because, let's face it, Nicky's always had a way with the ladies and maybe it's time I started listening to the tosser after all. Then I'm stood in front of that very posh door in that very posh house with the rather posh doorknocker and feeling apprehensive. I have to give myself a mental kick in the backside to actually knock on the door.
The bloke from last night, the my-god-doesn't-he-look-tasty?-ex-lover, opens the door and does a double take on the flowers—shit! Maybe red roses were overkill. Should have gone with something a little less desperate; carnations maybe?—and then grins broadly at me. "Quinn, your pretty boy is here," he hollers and I feel the blush starting somewhere around my toes.
Thankfully, by the time the blush actually reaches my face, the ex-lover-I'm-starting-to-dislike-even-more-intensely has been pushed out of the way by Quinn. Oh god, he's looking edible; he's looking bloody perfect. Can we skip the date and just shag in the hallway? No? It'd probably scare off the neighbors, right? "Evening love," he smiles, "are those for me."
"Ugh," I say. Oh, very intelligent there Rob, wonder if there are any highly-evolved cavemen that'd top that amazing display of eloquence. I shove the flowers at him as you would a bag of dog-shit and blush even more furiously. He takes them gingerly and passes them off to the ex-lover-have-I-mentioned-how-much-I-don't-like-that-bloke? and then he is kissing me rather fervently. Alright, so maybe the flowers weren't such a bad idea after all.
"Thanks Rob," he says somewhat breathlessly when he finally comes up for air. "Let's go, shall we? Where are you taking me for dinner?"
I clear my throat. "Well, there's a new Indian place down below Covent Garden that I've heard good things about," I stammer. "Thought we'd give that a try. Plus, you know, it's not too far from there to Leicester Square, which'll make it easy for the movie afterwards... unless there's somewhere else you'd rather go?"
"No, curry sounds perfect," he smiles. "Let's go then."
So off we go to Covent Garden.
The first inkling I get that things are about to go horribly wrong, is that about five minutes after the waiter seats us at a table for two frantic activity ensues right next to us when an army of waiters and bus boys start pushing several tables together to create a table for fourteen. Oh joy! Looks like we'll be joined by the local footie team, whoever they are.
'Course it's my fault really. I mean, I did insist on picking a reasonably-priced restaurant in the Westend, cunningly located just between the pubs at the edge of the City and the clubs up around Covent Garden, Soho and Tottenham Court Road. What the hell was I thinking? Stands to reason that just about every idiot working in the City would think to stop by a pub with his mates after work on a Friday night and then, after a pint or ten, the inebriated wankers would be popping in for a quick curry before hitting the clubs in search of a pair of tits. Yeah, great planning there Rob!
My fears are confirmed when thirteen drunken louts with non-existent haircuts noisily make their way across the dining room to settle in next to us talking seven kinds of shit, most of it revolving around lager and girls. I smile at Quinn apologetically. "Sorry about that, completely failed to consider the Friday night tossers, do you want to leave?"
He shakes his head. "Don't be silly, we just got here. Besides, you promised me dinner, remember?"
Then the waiter is shuffling up to us, inquiring whether we are ready to place our order.
Quinn nods. "I'll have the chicken korma," he says.
"Very well sir," the waiter replies before turning to me, "and for you sir."
"I'll have the, uhm," I scan the menu desperately. Been to busy ogling Quinn and then worrying about the football hooligans to actually come to any decision. "I'll have the lamb vindaloo," I say.
The waiter looks me up and down for a long moment. Then fuck me if he doesn't smirk and say, "no, you cannot have the vindaloo."
I'm getting flustered now. Oh alright, I was already flustered plenty by that whole date thing, but I'm getting even more flustered now. "Why not?" I snap.
He gives me another sideways look and then he says, "because your bottom will hurt in the morning."
I turn bright pink. OK, I had plans for my bottom being pleasantly sore in the morning as he so helpfully pointed out—if the night went right, that is—but there's really no need for the waiter—excuse me, service personnel!—to point that out so bluntly, and I sincerely doubt that that is what he meant, unless I've suddenly got the word 'faggot' tattooed on my forehead and I've been too preoccupied to notice.
Quinn isn't helping. He's giggling maniacally—yes, apparently men are capable of giggling given the right incentive—and proceeds to bat his eyelashes at the waiter before saying suggestively, "not to worry, it's my bottom that will hurt in the morning."
Of course he does have to say that at the very moment the room is plunged into complete and utter silence. It's the waiter's turn to blush, but he recovers admirably. "Very good sirs" he says, "one chicken korma and one lamb vindaloo coming up. Would you care for some naan?"
"Yes," Quinn replies, "and two pints of lager please."
"Very well sir, I will be right back with your drinks," the waiter says and hurries away.
Quinn turns to me with a satisfied look on his face, totally ignoring my discomfort and says, "it's amazing the cheek some people have. You would have thought he could have just said that the Vindaloo was a tad on the spicy side... I mean, really, was it absolutely necessary for him to expound upon the aftereffects of spicy curries?"
I nod, quite incapable of speech. Around us the conversation is slowly resuming, but—and this might be my overactive imagination running away with me—it seems that the lager louts at the table next to us are starting to size us up. I haven't been so uncomfortable in a really long time.
"Hey, Rob, are you alright?" Quinn asks.
"Yeah, I guess," I reply hesitantly. "Did you have to say that?"
Quinn shrugs. "Come on, that waiter was rude. Besides, I know you and I know damn well that if you don't like what you're ordering you'll be wanting to trade plates, so on the whole, I wasn't exactly lying when I said that if anyone was going to be sore in the morning it would be me..."
I frown. "You were practically telling him that we were..." and there's another one of those sentences that Rob the grand master of rhetoric doesn't seem to be able to finish!
Quinn's smile is starting to fade. "Thought you said you didn't care who found out anymore," he growls.
"That doesn't mean you've got to go around announcing it for all of London to hear," I snap. "Look here London, this is my lover, he likes to give it to me good and hard." As if by magic, the entire room is once again plunged into silence as I utter the words. Oh shit. There are definitely some rumblings from the other table now and an elderly couple at the other side of the room is frantically signaling for the waiter.
"Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "Congratulations Rob, you've just announced our relationship to the entire room whereas I was just being suggestive," he says. "Though I don't think you'll be doing any of the giving it to someone good and hard tonight, not unless you fancy a trip to the seedier parts of Soho to pick up a trick for yourself."
The rumblings at the lager lout table are starting to turn into a low chant now, a chant that is indiscernible so far, but could very well be 'faggots.'
"Shit, I'm sorry," I mumble.
"Yeah, me too," Quinn snaps. "You know, I've quite lost my appetite. I think I'll be leaving."
He gets up and starts walking out without a second look. Cursing wildly and scrambling for my wallet, I throw a couple of notes onto the table at random—probably too much, but who cares at this point?—and take off after him. I catch up with him in the street.
"Quinn, please, I didn't mean to... look, I thought you were fine with people knowing..."
He turns around and sighs, "Rob, there's a difference between not hiding and being discreet. That difference may very well save your sorry arse when you come across that lot outside a restaurant. Do you think they'd have spared a thought if they'd overheard that in the street? They would have just come and given us a good kicking."
"I'm sorry, I lost my temper, alright?" I mumble. I know he's right though. That was fucking stupid, that was tantamount to walking into the pub and announcing to the regulars that I was shacked up with a bloke. Even the cricket bat under the counter wouldn't help much in that kind of situation. "Look, can we just forget about that happening and start over?"
He thinks about that for a moment, then he nods and starts walking towards Leicester Square.
We're using the back way, all those little alleys between Covent Garden and Leicester Square and Quinn is walking a good five paces ahead of me. After a few minutes I can't take the silence any longer. "Quinn, are you still mad?"
"No. Yes. A little," he sighs and stops to turn to me. "Look, I just wanted to have a nice evening out without a scene, is that so much to ask for?"
"No it isn't," I reply stepping closer. "I'm sorry I'm an idiot, I'm sorry I screw everything up, I'm sorry I open my mouth without thinking, I'm just plain sorry, alright?"
"I know," he says quietly. "I'm sorry too."
So I start kissing him because that's the best cause of action I can come up with. Start pushing him towards the alley wall and attack his mouth good and proper, hands running through his hair and down his shoulders and that's how it all started out, didn't it? First time he kissed me that we weren't in the middle shagging was in that alley a few streets from home when I asked him to kiss me just because I wanted to be kissed.
The trouble with these things is that you can never quite go back to the beginning. I'm hot and bothered and missing him and a little bit of tossing off last night after I got home didn't exactly do much to extinguish that desperate fire burning in my belly. I miss him. I want him. I want everything to go back to normal. So I do the only thing I can think of to fix it all.
I've got him backed up against the wall and I'm kissing him and he's kissing me back quite passionately, so I take a gamble and start sinking down in front of him, my hands desperately grappling with the fastenings of his trousers. He catches my hands in an iron grip and pulls me back up. "What do you think you're doing?"
I leer at him. "It's obvious, innit? Gonna explore that little kink for semi-public sex and suck you off. It's not Lord Nelson, but-"
"No," he says rather forcefully, "not like this."
"You're still angry," I mumble.
"Yes, but that's not the reason," he sighs. "You can't fix everything with sex Rob."
"I wasn't... I mean, I want to..." I stammer.
"I'm sure you do. You're horny as hell and last night probably didn't help any," he replies. "Still, you've gotten into this habit... look, every time we argue, every time something bugs you or we exchange words, it always ends up with you apologizing and then shagging me in short order, and that's just not how this is supposed to work. You can't just have make-up sex every time things go wrong. That's not how relationships work and that's not what I want."
"Well, why don't you tell me what you want," I snap. "Because I've got to tell you I'm flying blind here. One minute you're all over me and the next minute you don't want to touch me and I don't even know what this is supposed to be anymore."
Oh and my voice is starting to hitch a little and that's just perfect. Hallelujah, Rob's about to crack up and behave like a two-year-old again, and have I mentioned I'm miserable? No? Well, I am. All I want is for this to go away and for us to be alright again and then maybe go home for the shag to end all shags, but I don't think that's in the cards somehow... and unless I really pull myself together within the next few minutes, I'm going to throw the wobbly to end all wobblies, to use mum's terminology.
"Hey, come here," Quinn says softly and pulls me into his arms my back pressed to his chest. He rests his chin on my shoulder and wraps his arms around my waist and that's a pretty good place to be right now. We just stand there for a few minutes until I start to relax a little bit.
"Please tell me what to do," I almost whine—maybe I really do whine. "I really don't know what to do anymore. I don't know what you want. I don't know how to fix this."
"You hurt me," he whispers.
"I know and I'm sorry, I really am, but how many more times can I apologize for that?" OK, we're definitely in whining territory now. That was a full-out classic Rob-regressing-to-two-year-old-status whine. I'm such a girl sometimes.
"I don't want you to apologize anymore," Quinn replies. "I want you to take me to dinner and take me to the movies and then take me dancing afterwards. I want you to take me home and kiss me goodnight at the door and then come back tomorrow to take me to the zoo or something..."
"You want to go to the zoo?" I ask bewildered.
"Yes. No. look, you can take me to Kew Gardens or the National Gallery for all I care," he sighs. "I want you to fuss over me. I want you to make me feel like I'm the most important thing in your life-"
"You are the most important thing in my life," I interrupt hotly.
"That's as may be, but right now I don't feel like it," he says shrugging. "I want to be sure you're as serious about this as I am. I need to be sure it's worth coming back."
That hurts. I was so sure after last night... alright, maybe I was premature in thinking that we'd gotten past that bit. I was so sure he was going to come back, was so sure he'd accepted my apology... OK, so I'm pretty sure he's accepted my apology, but I guess that doesn't automatically mean that he's prepared to come back. Shit. You would have thought that was obvious. I'm an idiot sometimes.
"Wanna go to the West Ham game tomorrow?" I ask.
"Uhm, Rob," he sighs, "the point of the exercise is to do things that'll make me happy, things that I enjoy. I'm a Crystal Palace supporter and I'd really rather not see the bloodbath that usually entails."
"Alright, alright, I'm trying here," I reply. "I'm a little new to this game... do you want to go to the zoo tomorrow?"
He hugs me closer and kisses my neck. "Yeah, I think I'd like that," he says. "I'm also thinking I might really enjoy that new French film that's playing at the Prince of Wales and possibly some dancing afterwards, if only somebody would just ask me..."
I have to grin at that. I'm learning, I really am, but I think Quinn is too. I think he's finally worked out that subtlety is lost on me. On the whole, the verbal equivalent of a jackhammer would probably just about alert me to the fact that a point has been made.
"Quinn, would you like to come and see a dreadful French film with me and then go to that club you like? You know, the one with all the nice boys you can ogle while you're dancing with me?" I ask smiling widely.
"Hmm, do you think I could dance with some of those nice boys as well?" He asks nuzzling my neck.
I think about that for a few seconds before I answer. "Not sure that's a good idea Quinn," I reply. "I rather think I may be the jealous type."
"You don't say," he chuckles. "I'd never have guessed that!"
"Mock me if you must," I sigh dramatically. "In fact, try to go on mocking me a little longer."
"How much longer exactly?" He asks laughing.
"Oh, I should think until five minutes or so after the start of the final screening of that film would do very nicely," I say quite unabashed.
"Not a chance Rob," he laughs loosening his embrace. "You'll just have to sit through the subtitles for a couple of hours."
"It was worth a try, wasn't it?" I grumble.
He takes my hand and we start walking towards Leicester Square again. "You'll survive," he grins. "Hey, maybe we'll go and see one of those dreadful shoot-me-ups you favor next week, alright?"
See, that's just one the reasons I'm totally besotted with him.
"You know, even with the subtitles I did not understand that film," I whine as we exit the cinema two hours later.
"Probably because you were too busy doing... something else," Quinn replies in good humor.
"Or maybe because it was utter crap?" I say. "I mean, why would a singer refuse to be recorded and what was that Chinese bloke doing there anyway?"
Quinn sighs. "Oh come on Rob, there must have been something you liked about it."
"I guess the motorcycle chase was wicked," I admit grudgingly. "That was very nicely done. Oh, and I liked that flat. Do you think we could have a lighting scheme like that in our room?"
"Doubt it," Quinn grins. "I think that only works in futuristic warehouses, not Victorian flats in Islington."
"I'm just thinking, if we exchange every regular light bulb in the room with one painted with translucent black paint, we could get pretty damn close," I explain excitedly. "Wouldn't that just be fantastic?"
"I really don't think so Rob," Quinn grins. "So you liked the motorcycle chase sequence and the lighting in that flat. Anything else?"
I suppress a grin and shake my head. "No, nothing else I can think of."
We're heading well into Soho by now, walking in the general direction of the clubs, though we haven't discussed it. It's late and the alleys are dark and empty. I step a little closer to Quinn, close enough so I could take his hand without having to reach should I want to, though I'm happy to just walk beside him for now.
He slows down a little and turns to me. "You're sure about that, are you?" He asks, stepping close enough so his mouth is only inches away from mine. "Nothing else you liked about that film."
"No, not that I remember," I smirk a little breathlessly.
"In that case," Quinn says running his tongue along my bottom lips, "you'll not want me to finish what I started then."
I moan. Oh god. I thought he was just teasing me back in the cinema—or else trying to stop me from fidgeting when I got bored—I didn't actually think... well, he said he wasn't going to have sex with me, right? I mean, there was all that nastiness on the way to the cinema and words being exchanged and him accusing me of trying to fix all our problems by simply having sex very quickly and very wildly, so I thought... yeah, alright, the fact that he was rubbing my dick through my trousers during the film should have tipped me off, shouldn't it?
"Are you offering?" I finally manage to ask through the lust-haze.
Quinn is stroking my arms and nibbling on my neck now and that hard-on, which never quite went away in the cinema, is back in full force. A hot Quinn-tongue runs all the way up my throat, across my chin—and aren't I grateful I remembered to shave before going to pick him up?—and back to my mouth. He runs his tongue across my bottom lip again and just as I'm parting my lips almost whimpering with need, he pulls back and grins at me. "Not offering, no, just playing a little."
"Tease!" I groan.
"Yeah," he smirks. "Now be a good boy and take me dancing."
I adjust myself—should have worn looser trousers—and look around myself a little. "I would, except I think I'm kind of lost. Where the hell are we?"
Quinn laughs and takes my hand. "It's just around the corner over there," he says. "Come on! You promised me lots of pretty boys to ogle."
Yeah, Quinn, don't know quite how to say this, but that was a joke," I mutter. "I don't particularly like the idea of you ogling anybody else."
He pouts and says, "well, if you're going to be like that, I suppose I'll just have to settle for ogling you."
We're at the entrance of the club now, I recognize the doorman. We were just coming at it 'round the back way, which was why I didn't know where I was for a moment. Quinn nods at the bouncer—I suppose it's safe to assume that Quinn's spent a lot of time here, and not only this past week. I know I shouldn't be prying, but it's one of those things, innit? I can't help but be curious, largely because I'm starting to suspect that, never mind living in the same flat for eight months, more than seven of those as lovers, I really don't know Quinn all that well. I've never thought to ask. Maybe it's time I remedied that. "Come here often?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Used to," he shrugs. "It's one of the more popular spots to..." he looks at me quizzically for a moment. "You've worked that out, right?"
"What? That guys come here to meet other guys, for... well for..." I'm struggling with the words and that's just silly. I should be more comfortable saying it by now.
Quinn rolls his eyes at me. "For sex Rob. Jesus, you'd think you'd get past the stuttering some time soon; god knows, you've done it often enough these past eight months to get rather good at it."
"Hey, I've always been good," I snap back somewhat defensively.
Quinn grins. "Beginner's luck," he chuckles. "To answer you question, yes, I came here a lot when I was looking to make new friends, but I hadn't been since I started seeing you—not until earlier this week, if that's what you're wondering. Haven't been looking for any cheap thrills. And before you ask, I didn't make any new friends this week either."
"I know," I reply. "I never thought you had. I was just... there's so much I don't know, but that can wait. Let's hit the dance floor. I want to..."
"Yeah, me too," he smiles and wraps his arms around my waist. "It's nice arriving and leaving here with the same person."
Then we dance into the small hours of the morning. I take him home and kiss him goodnight at the door just like he wanted, and then head home for too little sleep before I need to pick him up again for that trip to the zoo. Somehow it's alright by me as well. I don't really need the shagging—want yes, need no—because I've realized that there's other things I want more. I want to spend time together and find out absolutely everything I've never bothered to ask; I want to know what makes him smile—apart from a good pounding because I know that makes him smile, or rather, grin inanely—want to know what makes him happy.
So maybe it wasn't the worst date ever—got off on the wrong foot maybe, but it wasn't all bad. Not that I've anything to compare it to either, because this is really the first time a lover's bothered to go out with me and it didn't lead to anything other than a fairly chaste goodnight kiss, but that's alright by me too. I think I rather like the idea that we went and had fun and that there was nothing else expected in turn.
I go home and reacquaint myself with Mrs. Palm—and I'm pretty sure Quinn's probably doing the same in his friend's spare room—and I can live with that, because I'll get to see him again tomorrow and the day after and eventually he'll be coming home again; I've no doubt about that. I can wait. I'm good at waiting. I waited twenty-eight years for someone like Quinn to come along—someone who'd want me for myself and my company and my less than sparkling wit—and what difference are a couple of weeks going to make after twenty-eight years?
So next morning bright and early I get up to drag Quinn to the zoo because that's where he wanted to go and who am I to argue with that? Actually, it isn't half-bad. I haven't been to the zoo since I was a nipper and even though I'd personally rather go and see West Ham play, I'm enjoying myself immensely watching Quinn getting all excited about the animals. I swear to god, I practically have to drag him away from the lion pen after twenty minutes because he's starting to scare the kiddies. It's strange, I don't think I've ever seen him get this excited before about anything; all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed you might say—oh god, that sounded really bad, didn't it?
"Guess you really like those lions, huh?" I ask when I finally manage to herd him away and towards the elephant house.
"Love cats," he replies. "I always wanted one when I was a boy, but I was never allowed to have one. The old man wasn't overly fond of animals, you might say; probably thought boys should be after great big shaggy dogs, not that he ever let us have one of those either."
I file that knowledge away for future reference, might come in handy around his birthday or something. "Quinn have you ever... I mean, have you always know..." a shit, these questions are much more difficult to ask than you'd think. "What I'm meaning to ask is, have you ever been with, you know, girls?"
Quinn stops and looks as me utterly puzzled. "What the hell brought that on?" He asks.
I shrug. "It's just, you never really talk much about yourself, about growing up and... oh forget it. It's stupid. You don't have to tell me."
"Rob, don't get your knickers in a twist," he sighs. "You really want to know about that whole sordid business of growing up?"
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Everything. I want to know when you knew, what it was like..."
"You never ask the easy questions, do you?" Quinn grins. "Alright, let's sit down over there and I'll tell you anything you want to know."
He pulls me over to a table set a little bit apart from the rest of them—far enough away to prevent eavesdropping I suppose—and settles down opposite me. "Well, to answer your first question, no, I've never been with a girl like that," he begins. "Actually, that's not quite correct. I kissed a girl once. I was trying to be what I was expected to be and I was taking girls out like any other boy would... God, I used to wish I was ugly so they'd turn me down because I really didn't want to take them out..."
I laugh at that, it kind of sounds like Quinn, doesn't it? While he was wishing himself ugly so he wouldn't have to step out with any girls, I was chasing them all over the place and never getting anywhere. Maybe we could've traded and both been a lot happier.
He smiles. "Try not to laugh too much, alright? This is embarrassing enough as it is."
"Sorry," I mumble. "So what happened?"
"Well, that was pretty much it," he grins. "I caved under pressure from the old man who wanted me to go out and sow my wild oats or something like that and asked out this chit. Katie her name was. She was a real looker too, all blonde and blue-eyed; she ended up becoming a dancer in a Westend theater company I think, though I suppose she'd be married with a couple of kids and retired from dancing by now. Anyway, I took her to the cinema one Saturday night and she ended up kissing me after the film. It was just about the worst kiss ever and that was that really. Well, I mean, there was pretty much zero reaction below the belt so nothing much would've happened at any rate, even if I hadn't had the sudden desire to head home and brush my teeth... so that was it, my one and only foray into kissing girls."
"How old were you?" I ask.
"With Katie? Oh, sixteen, seventeen, something like that," he shrugs. "It really was less than memorable."
"And that was the reason you decided to..." I know I'm blushing fiercely but I don't really care right now. I'm nosy, alright?
"Good lord, no!" Quinn laughs. "Katie was the denial phase you might say; when I was desperately trying to be normal. Didn't quite work out, especially not because I remembered... well, it doesn't really matter."
"Yeah it does," I insist.
"Alright," Quinn sighs. "You want to know about my first time?"
I nod, my face bright crimson. He twiddles with his earrings for a few seconds—it's something he does whenever he doesn't quite know what to say and that's making me a little nervous right now. How bad could it have been? "You don't have to tell me if it was really really bad," I mumble. "Don't mean to pry. I'm just curious."
"It's fine," he says quietly. "It wasn't that bad. Wasn't that great either, but that was mostly for what happened after. I guess I was thirteen or fourteen or thereabouts and I was still fairly small—I went through a major growth spurt a year or so later, gained about eight extra inches in height, packed on the muscle, voice dropped a couple of octaves, the whole she-bang, but at the time I was still on the small side. There was this boy what lived down the street from us in Twickenham, Tommy his name was. We used to go smoking in the shed and he'd have a bottle of lager every once in a while, you know, ordinary kid stuff.
"Anyway, we used to spend a bit of time together, although it was more about doing things that I wasn't supposed to do, like drinking and smoking and skipping school, than it was about romance or anything. I'm not even sure I fancied him like that, it'd probably never occurred to me. I mean, yeah, I looked up to him, but that was more about him getting the smokes and the beer than it was about anything else. I don't think he was into blokes either, he just couldn't get a leg over with the girls, so... look, are you sure you want to know this?"
I nod. "Yeah, unless you really don't want to tell me."
"Alright, so one day we're in the shed and Tommy says something about how all girls are stuck-up twats and pretty boys are just as well and he kissed me and it was kind of nice and before I knew it there was a tub of vaseline and I was unceremoniously bent over the tool bench. It didn't hurt or anything—thankfully there was a lot of vaseline involved—it didn't take very long though and I didn't get much out of it. I mean, he never even touched me where I should have liked to be touched and he was out the door pretty much as soon as he'd wiped himself off on his shirt. Never really talked to me again," Quinn finishes.
He's got a funny look on his face, kind of like his mind is very far away, and I'm getting angry; very angry indeed. "He raped you," I grind out between clenched teeth.
"No he didn't," Quinn replies softly. "I wasn't exactly unwilling. So maybe it wasn't what I would have wanted with hindsight and maybe it wasn't all that nice, but..."
"Still, if that hadn't happened you might-"
"Don't even finish that sentence Rob," Quinn interrupts. "It had nothing to do with that. I wouldn't have fancied girls even if that hadn't happened. Doesn't work like that." He sighs. "Look, I was going to be queer no matter what, alright? I wouldn't change that either. The only thing I'd change given the chance is make sure that it'd happened with somebody who mattered, that's all."
I nod. "That's why you waited with me though, innit? You didn't want..."
"I wanted whatever happened between us to be your choice, yes. I didn't want you to feel you'd been pushed to do something you didn't want to do," he replies.
"Thank you," I say.
"No reason to thank me. It was worth it. Waiting I mean," he smiles. "It was totally worth the wait."
He says that and I lose my mind, I think—alright, lose it more; I lost a fair bit of it about eight months ago when I didn't boot Quinn out of my bed and let him continue pulling me off and god am I grateful for that! But I lean across the table, take his face in my hands and kiss him full on the mouth, with tongues and everything, and I don't break the kiss until I have to come up for air.
Quinn blinks at me for a moment, looking a little shell-shocked and ever so slightly smug as well. "You kissed me."
"Yeah," I grin. So maybe he's more than just a little shell-shocked.
You kissed me at two o'clock on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of London Zoo," he states matter-of-factly, though his voice is shaking a little bit.
"That I did," I grin inanely.
"It'll be a miracle if we make it out of here before one of the dads takes it upon himself to show us what exactly he thinks about two blokes kissing in front of the children," Quinn says quite calmly.
"Yeah," I reply, grin fading somewhat.
"Leg it?" He asks.
"Shit yeah," I laugh and he's pulling me up already, hurrying me towards the exit.
We don't stop again until we're out in Regent's Park. Once there he pulls me close, wrapping one arm loosely around my waist. "That took a lot of balls Rob," he says quietly. "Didn't think you had it in you."
"I'd kiss you in front of the Queen and parliament if I though it'd make you come home with me," I explain, realizing that it is true; I would.
He looks at me for a long moment, then rests his chin on my shoulder and whispers, "tell me."
Well, this shouldn't be too hard, right? I take a deep breath. "I want you Quinn Matheson. I want you more than anything else in the world. I want you in my bed and at my table and in my life. I want to live with you. I want to grow old with you. I want you." Another deep breath. "I love you." Not so very hard at all.
He just stands there a little while longer, his head resting on my shoulder, and then he says, "I'll come home. Not today, not until Maggie moves out, but I'll come home. Don't make me regret it. I won't come back a second time."
"Does that mean we can go back to your friend's place and screw like rabbits?" I ask.
He laughs. "How about we settle for a resounding 'no'? I've agreed to come home, I've not totally forgiven you yet. That'll take a little bit longer."
"Was worth a try though, wasn't it?" I grin.
"Yeah, it was. You must be bored to bits tossing off after all those months of first-class arse," he teases. "How're you holding up there, wrist hurting yet?"
I laugh and he steps away a bit, though he keeps hold of my hand as we start walking through the park back towards central London in companionable silence.
A week later Quinn's still staying with I-look-so-hot-in-a-muscle-shirt-bloke—and have I mentioned recently how much I despise that man? Worse though, it's been a week since he told me he was coming home and we've spent at least a little bit of time together every day that week, doing things that I know Quinn enjoys, and he's still not putting out! I think I'm starting to develop some serious stress issues in my hand.
Yeah, I know, I've no one to blame but myself. It was all my fault he left in the first place and it's not as if I haven't gone without before and much longer than a week, but... well, it's easy to get used to regular sex, innit? Much harder to get used to getting along like a house on fire and then being said good-bye to at the door of I-hate-the-bastard's flat and going home with a throbbing hard-on. I've been so cross most of the time, even Nicky's been avoiding me until after I release the tension so to speak. The only saving grace is that I'm pretty sure Quinn is suffering just as much as I am.
I've tried to get him to budge, I really have; employed all my manly charms and more besides, and he still won't do much more than kiss and grope a little bit. I'm starting to think he's doing it on purpose, trying to see how long he can string me along before either my wrist gives out or my dick breaks, and I'm rather fond of both... is it possible to rupture a testicle from being impossibly hard and horny for hours on end because your lover won't let you get into his pants? Alright, alright, I'll stop whining; it's not as if that's going to help any.
The plan for today was dinner and a movie—and thank god, after this one I don't think there's any foreign films left that we haven't seen!—and after that I walk him back to the flat of look-at-my-shiny-waxed-chest. I've pretty much resigned myself to the usual snog in the hallway followed by an uncomfortable walk down to the bus stop and I'm all ready to leave when he says, "Terry's not here today. Would you like to come in for a bit?"
What kind of question is that? Would I like to come in for a bit? I've spent the last week or more desperately trying to persuade him to come back home and to shag the living daylights out of me—not necessarily in that order—and he asks whether I want to come in for a bit. "Is a frog's arsehole watertight in the middle of winter?" I quip.
He blinks at me a few times. "I'll just assume that was an entirely rhetorical question, shall I?"
"'Course I want to come in idiot," I roll my eyes, adding with a bit of a leer, "as far in as you'll let me at any rate."
He forgives me the incredibly sad innuendo, which should be reason enough to fall down on my knees and worship him or his dick, whichever is easier, I'm not fussy at this point—yeah, alright, alright, sexual frustration will do that to a man—and steps aside to let me into the flat.
I have a little look around the sitting room while Quinn goes to get a couple of beers out the refrigerator and now I really, really dislike the ex. He's got taste. His flat is just about the most tasteful thing I've ever seen outside a decorating magazine—not that I've seen that many decorating magazines, mind—and it reeks of money. Christ, there's no way I can compete with this.
"Nice place," I grunt when Quinn returns from the kitchen with the beer.
"You think?" He asks. "It's a little bit too much for my tastes. I'm always strangely afraid that I'll break something expensive if I touch anything."
"Couldn't have that," I grin. "Tell you what, you can touch me, I'm as cheap as they come..."
"Hmmm," Quinn says giving me a predatory look. "Cheap maybe, but of the finest craftsmanship."
I blush—god I wish I'd get over that habit already—and next thing I know, Quinn's got his arms around my waist and is pushing me back towards the sofa while trying to wrap his tongue around my tonsils.
I'm not one to question good fortune, so I go along for the ride; stumble backwards until the cushion hits me at the back of my knees and sink down, pulling Quinn on top of me. Then it all becomes a little bit disjointed. There's kissing and nipping and tongues all over the place. There's warm hands working their way over shoulders and arms and backs. There's shaking fingers undoing shirt buttons and there's rock-hard dicks rubbing against each other quite desperately.
I somehow manage to remove Quinn's shirt, start sucking his nipples quite fervently, but I don't dare attack the buttons of his trousers—I'm not sure I'd be welcome just yet. Christ I've missed this. Missed him.
"Rob," he pants when I let go of his nipple momentarily, "slow down."
"Am slow," I moan. "Trying to go slow, but I've missed you so much-"
"Missed you too," he interrupts, "but I'm not ready to... look, I've nothing against making out like schoolboys, but I'm not quite ready to... I won't let you fuck me. Not yet."
"'s alright," I grunt amid the general rubbing and trying to kiss every part of his body I can reach. "You can fuck me."
"Yer what?" He asks bewildered.
"I understand you don't want to put out until you feel you can trust me again and you've no reason to trust me yet," I explain. "I trust you though."
"You want me to..." he asks shakily.
"God, yes please," I moan. "How do you want me Quinn? On my back? On my hands and knees? Bent over the back of the sofa? Tell me how you want it."
"I..." he hesitates. I've a feeling he's struggling now, wanting to say 'on your back' because he knows that I prefer seeing his face and I don't ask to be fucked often enough for him to take it lightly; this isn't about me though.
"However you want Quinn," I emphasize the 'you.' "I mean it. You're to have your wicked way with me."
"If you're sure..." he begins hesitantly.
"Yeah, I'm sure," I nod vigorously.
He shifts over to allow me space to get up and says, "I want you bent over the back of the armchair there." His dick twitches against my thigh. "I want you to drop your trousers and slick yourself up and then walk over to that chair and lean over the back of it and beg me to come over and fuck you."
It takes all my will power not to come in my pants when he says that. I get up off the sofa and stand just a little bit in front of him, slowly unbuttoning my trousers. I kick them off and pick up the jar of handcream Quinn's produced from somewhere and place one foot on the coffee table. Then I dip one finger into the jar and bring it slowly back to my body. I can see Quinn quivering out of the corner of my eye.
I give him a good show. Bend over ever so slightly so's he can see what I'm doing and start fucking myself slowly on my own finger. After a while I add a second, then a third. My dick is dripping and I can barely suppress the moans as I thrust my fingers in and out of my body. I think Quinn is drooling on the couch.
When I start to think I'm in imminent danger of coming right there and then, I slowly withdraw my fingers from my arse and walk over to the chair. I bend over so my shoulders are resting on the back of it and wiggle my arse in Quinn's general direction. "Come and fuck me Quinn. Please. I want you to fuck me hard."
I can hear his sharp intake of breath behind me, but he isn't moving. "I said beg, not ask nicely," he rasp. "Beg me properly."
The part of my brain that's still working is suddenly profoundly grateful that I'm facing away from him as the heat spreads across my face and I send up a quick prayer to any gods that might be listening hoping that arses can't blush. Can they? "Please fuck me. Fuck me hard. I want you to fuck me so hard I'll be feeling you for days. Want you to fuck me so hard I can't walk. Want you to fuck me so hard that I'll have to stand on the bus. Want you to fuck me so hard, everyone'll know you've been fucking me. Please Quinn."
I can hear him getting up from the sofa but he's not moving, just stood there on the other side of the room. "Please what?" he grunts with difficulty.
I hesitate for only the slightest of moments. "Please sir?" I ask.
"That's better," he says quite hoarsely. "Go on, convince me. Tell me why I shouldn't just leave you there needing and wanting. What's in it for me? Beg me!"
Oh god. Another kink. Not that I've the presence of mind to care any longer, all my blood is required elsewhere. "Please sir," I whimper, trying hard to keep myself from coming before he's gotten within three yards of my aching body. "Please, I'll be so good for you; all warm and tight and wanting... use me for your pleasure. I am here to serve you."
He's panting hard now. "You're sure about that? Are you sure you can please me? Are you sure you are tight enough, all slicked up like that? Maybe I should have just thrown you across that chair and taken you earlier."
God knows how, but I clamp down on the impending orgasm and somehow stop myself. I've a feeling I need 'sir's' permission to come in this game—yes, I do get a clue occasionally, in this case, mostly because I've been lurking around Soho a bit. Alright, alright, I may have asked Nicky a few questions as well after the night with the handcuffs. When he'd stopped laughing long enough to pick himself off the floor, he turned out to be a fountain of knowledge on the matter. Suffice it to say, I never knew Nicky was such a kinky bastard in the bedroom, though it does explain his preference for leather.
Oh good, distracted myself enough there to stave off exploding testicles. Only I'm pretty sure I should have answered about thirty seconds ago. "Please sir, if my arse isn't good enough for your pleasure, maybe you'd care to fuck my mouth instead."
Yes, it is actually possible to say that with a straight face when your hard-on is throbbing something wicked. He's unbuckling his belt now.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like it if I rammed my dick so far down your throat you'd see stars?" Quinn groans a lot closer to me.
"Please sir, whatever pleases you." He's right behind me now.
"On second thoughts," he whispers, "I think this pleases me more."
The moment he says it he's entering me with one quick powerful thrust and I scream. Jesus fucking Christ. It burns and feels good all at once, and he never even took his trousers of. I can fell them rubbing against my thighs even as his balls slap against my arse. Oh god. Gonna come. Gonna come. Can't come. Not allowed to come. Think of something else quick. Cricket. Think cricket. Who won the ashes last year?
He starts fucking me hard and fast, mercilessly. Nothing gentle about this; he's never been so rough with me before and what's more, I like it. My fingers are digging into the upholstery, holding on for dear life, as his fingers are alternating between digging into my hips and scratching across my back, leaving finger-sized bruises and drawing blood.
I slip out of character—well, wouldn't you?—and pant, "please Quinn... harder."
"Don't you dare touch yourself," he grunts pounding into me. "Gonna fuck you so hard you'll come all over the cushions."
"Please!" I whimper. "Can I come? Need to come Quinn."
"Yeah," he pants. "Come. Wanna see you come while I pound you into next week."
He's thrusting hard, breathing even harder. I'm going to be so fucking sore in the morning. Hell, won't even have to wait until morning, I'll be sore getting up from the chair. His fingers are scratching across my back, leaving welts in their wake, and his balls are slapping hard against my thighs and I'm going to burst any second...
"Come for me now," sir orders.
I scream.
Muscles jerk and convulse and Quinn is biting into my shoulder and thrusting hard once more and I'm painting the town white with my come. I'm only dimly aware of his dick twitching hard inside me and then he's collapsing across my back, breathing hard and licking at the scratches and bite marks he put there only minutes ago.
Long minutes pass and my breathing is evening out somewhat and he's getting soft and nuzzling my neck now. "Wow."
"Yeah," he smiles against my neck. "Wow."
"That was..." I can't think of an adjective adequate to describe what that was.
"Yeah," he sighs blissfully.
"Love you," I say.
He wraps his arms tightly around my chest and pulls me up from the chair until I'm leaning against him. "Yeah, I'm starting to believe that again," he whispers, moving us on over to the sofa. "You've quite the persuasive touch when you're desperate."
He's pulling me down with him now and I settle in between his legs, my head on his shoulders. He's still wearing jeans and I'm completely naked. I like that too. "I'm always desperate when I'm around you Quinn," I mumble burying my face in his hair.
"Good, because I think I might be coming home a little earlier than expected," he replies gruffly.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, think I've outstayed my welcome here," he says.
I look at him through half-closed lids. "How so?"
He smiles a glorious wonderful Quinn-smile. "Terry's going to kill us when he sees what we did to his chair."
"You're really coming home with me? Tonight?" I ask when I've had a little bit of time to process what he said.
"Depends," he replies.
"On what?" I ask trying very hard not to sound too eager. He knows I want him to come home, but I don't want to push my luck.
"Couple of things," he says. "If I come home now, I still expect you to take me places, to make me feel important. I don't want to fall back into that pattern of shagging mindlessly every night and never getting out of the house."
"Done," I say quickly.
"I wasn't finished," he sighs. "Look, even if I come home now, I'm not ready to have everything get back to normal. I'm not going to let you fuck me for a while yet."
I nod. "I can live with that," I say quietly and it surprises me a little because I realize I really can live with it, just so long as I have Quinn to curl into at night. I really do hate sleeping on my own. My throat is getting kind of parched and I fidget a bit, because there's one of those difficult questions forming in my mind. Oh well, no time like the present and all that rot. "Quinn," I start nervously, "will you... I mean, until you want me to make love to you again, will you fuck me?"
He smiles against my temple. "You don't have to, you know. I'm quite happy just mucking about for a while-"
"Yeah, but if I want to," I interrupt, "if I ask, will you?"
"Always," he replies softly kissing my temple.
Once we recover enough to actually get up and move, we do our best to clean up the evidence of your mating. Mind you, short of calling mum and asking her whether she knows of a way to get dried come out of fake velvet upholstery it looks like that chair will need professional attention in the not-too-distant future—and I decide I'm not quite up to asking mum questions along those lines.
Quinn sighs dramatically a few times and eventually settles on turning the chair around so the soiled part is facing the wall. Then he writes a note to Terry promising to pay for the cleaning. Next, I help him pack up his clothes—he didn't take that many, it seems—and we start walking down the street towards the bus stop. Well, he walks, I'm waddling a bit from the pounding I took.
I take great pains not to sit down on the bus either. In fact, I think sitting will be fairly low down on my list of things to do for the rest of the day and Quinn is grinning madly at me. He spends most of the trip home alternating between leering and making lewd comments when nobody's listening and generally enjoying himself immensely by the looks of it—I guess he's rather taken with the idea of having fucked me so hard I can hardly walk; staking his territory, you might say.
When we get to the flat Nicky virtually jumps up off the sofa and throws himself at Quinn. "Thank god you're back!" He shouts.
Quinn, looking rather confused and alarmed, stumbles backwards. Not that that helps him any, because he soon hits the wall and Nicky is rather over-enthusiastically trying to climb up his body. "Uhm, yeah, hi Nicky," Quinn mumbles, his ears reddening somewhat.
I can hardly contain myself. I've never seen him look so uncomfortable before. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him blushing like that. He throws a couple of helpless looks my way while I try not to double over with suppressed laughter.
"You have no idea what it was like!" Nicky babbles completely unaware of Quinn's discomfort. "I haven't had a proper meal in a fortnight and on top of that I had to put up with Rob's foul moods. At first he was mooning all over the place and then he actually started growling at me."
"Uhm, yeah," Quinn stammers. "Uhm, would you mind terribly getting off of me now?"
Nicky complies but continues right on talking and I swear one of these days I'm going to throttle him. "You've shagged him, haven't you?" He asks brightly. "Only, I think if he tosses off in the shower one more time he might permanently clog the drain and I don't think I'd enjoy explaining that to the landlord."
Fine. Now both Quinn and I are blushing furiously. I step in before Quinn can have a seizure. "Nicky, that's really none of your business," I say hotly.
"Hey, I'm just asking," he replies actually sounding offended. He gives me the once-over and starts grinning like a loon. "You did, didn't you? I can see it. You haven't had that well-shagged look since he left."
I blush more if that is humanly possibly. "Yeah, alright," I sputter. "He shagged me good and proper, alright? Now can you drop it please?"
"Fine, fine," Nicky grumbles. "That's what I get for trying to be supportive and taking an interest."
He slinks back off to the sofa and immerses himself in whatever he's watching while Quinn give me a look that speaks volumes. Mostly it seems to be asking, "what did he smoke and can I have some?" I shrug. I gave up on trying to figure Nicky out long ago.
"Let's get you settled in, yeah?" I say instead.
Quinn nods, picks up his bag, and follows me down the hallway. Just before we enter our room, Nicky hollers, "oOi, what's for dinner?"
I roll my eyes but Quinn just grins and says, "you know, it's good to be home."
© KJB 2002-2003.