Page 103 of Pansies

The lightest brush of fingers against Alfie’s arm, not to stop him this time, but simply to reach him. Like he was lost and Fen was calling his name. Guiding him through the dark.

It made something weak inside him buckle.

And just then, the kid slammed his head back. Got Alfie right on the nose.

“Jesus Christ.” His ears exploded with the crunch of his own cartilage. And then there was pain. Blood in his mouth. Flashing lights behind his eyes.

As Alfie staggered, half-blind, bewildered with the sheershock of it, the kid kicked him hard in the shins and bolted for his bike. Pedalled furiously away.

The merryjing-a-ling-lingof a bell sliced through the sudden silence.

Across the road, at what he clearly considered to be a safe distance, the kid swerved to a halt. “Faggot,” he yelled, shrill and triumphant. He was too far away to really see, but Alfie was sure he grinned. A feral and empty grin.

Then he wheeled his bike around. And was gone.

“I’m not a faggot.” Alfie staggered after him, not even giving chase, just moving because…what else could he do? Stand still? “I’m not a faggot, do you hear me?” The night took his words, as if they were nothing. “I’m not a faggot. I’m…I’m a person.”

Half the lights in the street were on now. The shadows of strangers staring down at him. Watching. Judging. Who the fuck knew?

“Alfie, oh, Alfie.” Fen, running after him, all streaming silk and flying hair, gleaming like a candle flame. “Are you all right? Your nose? Is it broken?”

“Don’t think so. But”—this terrible grief crested inside him and then came roaring at Fen—“what the fuck are you thinking? Being out here like that?”

“Like what? I’m here because I was worried about you.”

“I can take care myself. I’m not some poncy southern cream puff, you know, who can’t hold his own in a fight.”

A brief, tight silence.

“Yes, I’m well aware you’re good at hurting people. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be at your side. Even if”—Fen rolled his eyes—“you’re your own worst enemy.”

“I was handling it. You just made it worse. Flouncing around like some kind of…”

Fen had gone very pale. Very still. “Like some kind of what?”

“Some kind of”—Alfie gestured at the flowery kimono—“pansy.”

There was a rushing in Alfie’s ears, like listening to the sea through a shell, except inside his head. And his mouth was so sour and coppery he thought he might be sick.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Fen said quietly, “Iama pansy. And so are you.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to act like it.”

“Oh my God.” Fen actually threw his hands in the air, purple silk billowing around him. “Go to therapy, Alfie Bell. I’ve got too much going on in my life to deal with your bullshit.”

He turned on his heel and swept away, heading for the side door.

Alfie stared after him, full of all this stuff he couldn’t figure out or articulate. He was sure he was angry, but it hurt. Everything hurt. And he felt so alone. And Fen was leaving.

“It’s all right for you,” he heard himself shout. “You have a choice.”8

Fen stopped abruptly. Turned. Blazingly furious. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have to be like this. Or live like this. Or deal with any of it.” The words bubbled out of him, and they tasted like blood. “You could be with a woman. You could be straight.”

“But I’m not straight. Who I’m with doesn’t change who I am.” Fen threaded his fingers through his hair and pulled so hard it must have hurt. “I’m such a fucking idiot. How could I ever think you, of all people, could respect me or understand me or care about me. Next time just put my head down the toilet, you pathetic, waste-of-space, walking cliché.”

“Oi!” Across the street, a window sash rattled and one of Fen’sneighbours leaned out. “Some of us are trying te kip. Calm the fuck doon, or I’ll call the bizzies on ye.”

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