Page 104 of Pansies

For some reason, that only made Fen laugh—one of his bitter ones, though. “I’m causing a disturbance, but kids vandalising my shop and throwing eggs at my house don’t? You’re a bigoted old wazzock, and you can piss right off.” He glanced at Alfie, eyes steel in the greyish moonlight. “And the same goes for you. I never want to see you again.”

Alfie’s world was treacle. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel. “All my stuff’s still in the flat.”

“Then get it and get out.”

It took more effort than Alfie would have believed possible—almost more than he could muster—to move his feet. But somehow he did, one step, then the next, then the next.

Fen didn’t even look back.

18

Nothing seemed real. Not Alfie. Not Fen. Not the living room, where they’d been so happy less than twenty minutes ago. It was like those stories about fairy gold, which glittered so bright and made you think you were rich, only to turn back to stones when the sun set.

He grabbed his keys. His wallet. Phone.

Coat.

Was he forgetting something? He didn’t know anymore.

He didn’t know anything.

There was this pressure in his head, building and building. Maybe he’d broken his nose after all.

And then there were tears streaking out of his eyes. The salt of them mingling with the drying blood andstinging. He made a wet, choked sound. Shock mostly.

Put a bewildered hand to his face. His fingers came away wet.

“Alfie?” Fen. Sounding very far away. “Alfie, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

He was leaving. That was it. He was leaving because Fen didn’t want him anymore. Because he’d fucked everything up. Said all this stuff…stuff he meant and didn’t mean and couldn’t find his way through. And he was just so tired and sad and scared of everything.

Fen again, “Are you crying?”

He was almost into the hall when Fen’s hand brushed against his shoulder. Another of his so-light touches. But Alfie felt it like the needles of a tattoo gun.

Fen was in him so deep. Under his skin.

He would wear him forever. In all the colours of every flower that daily dared the sun.

And that was when it happened. Hairline fractures became rifts. Tore open vast and terrifying chasms. He broke.

Turned into Fen’s waiting arms and sobbed and sobbed and couldn’t stop.

“Don’t look at me,” he muttered, through the mess of spit and snot and blood.

Fen’s arms were tight. Unyielding in their strength. And they wouldn’t let Alfie go. His voice, though, his voice was soft as summer waves. “Shhh. It’s all right. I promise, it’s all right.”1

“It’s not. It’s not fucking all right.” It took Alfie a moment to find the problem. He knew it was there, knew everything was wrong, but Fen, being held by Fen like this, kept making it different. Then he remembered. “Men don’t cry.”

“Oh, Alfie, Alfie Bell”—now Fen’s voice broke—“of course they do.”

He sniffed. “Not proper ones.”

“Now listen here. You’ve said more than enough nonsense for one evening. Everyone cries. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it.”

They had somehow ended up on the floor: a slow, entangled slide from feet to knees. Which meant Fen had managed to get himself all round Alfie. Wrapped him up tight. It made Alfie feel small. Well, smaller than usual. But not entirely in a bad way. Truthfully, he wanted to live here. Inside Fen, forever.

---