Page 127 of For Real

And, Jesus fuck, this isn’t for the rest of them either. So I throw myself down beside him and gather him into my arms. I hold him and he holds me too, and we hold each other so fucking tight. I don’t know for how long, but when I look up again, we’re alone.

That’s one good thing.

And Laurie’s warm again, and he’s not trembling anymore.

So that’s probably another.

After a bit, he pushes my hair out of my face, which he’s kind of obsessed with for some reason, but it’s how I know he’s getting to be okay. Which God, I’m so fucking relieved about. Then he gives me this shy little smile and says, “Banoffee pie.”

And then we’re laughing. It’s shaky, and I’m not sure if I should be crying, but whatever, it’s what we’re doing, and it feels right.

There’s no reception down here because basement, which means we can’t ring for a taxi, so we go stumbling for the stairs. On the way, we meet the guy who lent me his awesomely nice flogger, and he’s got Laurie’s shirt.

It takes both of us to get poor Laurie into it. He tries to help, but his fingers are basically incompetent.

God. What have I done to him?

It’s Nice Flogger Man who calls us the taxi, and all three of us end up sitting on the doorstep waiting for it to come. The cold air is really good because it was comfortable-when-naked hot in the house, which meant it was basically uncomfortable-hot. Laurie rests his head on my shoulder, like he’s completely exhausted, and I suddenly realise I feel kind of the same way—inside, not outside—and we slump against each other. “Oh, Toby,” Laurie says, in this slightly slurry, dreamy way, “this is Dom. He plays the alto sax.”

This is clearly some kind of in-joke or something, but Nice Flogger Man—Dom, I guess—looks thrilled. I think he’s probably kind of hot, but he’s so not my type it barely registers. Total lack of ping, and I’m starting to accept I’m all about the ping.

“Uh, do you, like… Are you in a band or something?” I ask.

“I sometimes jam at the North Star on a Tuesday night.”

Laurie stirs a little. “We should come, hear you play.”

“I’d like that.” Dom smiles and stands up, trousers squeaking. “I think you two can take it from here.”

And then, totally out of nowhere, Laurie is like, “I’m sorry I never called you,” and I’m like, Wait, what? but I don’t say it aloud, thank God.

But Dom just shrugs. “I’m glad you found what you were looking for,” is all he says, as he goes back inside.

I call after him, “I hope you do too,” but I’m not sure he hears me.

I mean it though. He seems like a good person.

Our taxi comes, and we’re quiet all the way home, holding hands in the back. As we pass under streetlights, they paint Laurie in orange stripes, like he’s a tiger. A very tired tiger who needs looking after tonight.

“Y’know,” I say, when we finally get home, “let’s not do that again.”

Laurie gives me this look. “You know, let’s not.”

We still aren’t talking much, but it’s not the bad sort of not-talking. It’s not Laurie-keeping-me-out not-talking, it’s not needing-to-talk not-talking. It’s still early, but after Laurie has some water, we go to bed anyway, and just sort of lie there, being with each other.

It’s totally romantic in this quiet, unexplainable way.

I roll onto an elbow and stare at him all goofy-like, and he stares back—entirely ungoofy—but the greys in his eyes are soft as swan’s-down.

“‘He’s all states, and all princes I,’” I whisper to him.

I don’t think Laurie really knows what I’m on about, but he smiles up at me anyway.

“I’m sorry I fucked up tonight.”

“You didn’t.”

He sounds like he genuinely means it, but I’m not sure I deserve to get off that lightly. “I nearly did. I didn’t know what to do, and I got in a mess.”

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