Page 52 of Pansies

They were still close enough that Alfie felt him shiver. “I feel so debased,” Fen murmured in a manner that could only be described assultry.

Bloody hell. Alfie’s cock had spent the last five minutes doing the weirdest hokey-cokey, but now it was truly committed. He groaned helplessly. “Now you’re just giving me mixed signals.”

“I did warn you I’m very confused at the moment.”

“I’m not.”

Alfie pulled him close, then closer, and it turned out that Fen’s cock wasn’t confused either. They fell against each other, not quite managing anything as coordinated as kissing or touching, but it felt good, so good, the ways their bodies fit, and the ways they didn’t, the fact it was almost a struggle, but not.

“You know we’re going to be late,” Alfie managed at some point.

“Oh,” said Fen. Gasped really. His open mouth pressed to the side of Alfie’s neck. “Oh.”

“Offer stands. Get it out our systems.”

Fen squirmed, his hands pushing restlessly beneath Alfie’s jacket. “God, when did I become the kind of boy who puts outbeforea first date?”

“Maybe I like it.”

“I doubt it. You don’t fuck, remember?”

“That’s not… It’s just…it’s just I’m not very good at casual.”

“But aren’t you just reinforcing a heteronormative paradigm? In tying acts to intimacy. Centring sex on penetration.”

“I can’t tell if it’s hot or annoying that you talk like you’re on the internet.” Alfie gently tucked a piece of straggling hair behind Fen’s ear. “I know it doesn’t mean anything, like whether you fuck or suck or whatever, but at some point, you’ve got to decide what’s special. Because otherwise nothing is.”4

A smile, like a bright, crooked constellation in the shifting dark. “Take me to dinner, Alfie Bell.”

Alfie nodded. He wanted to take Fen’s hand, but he wasn’t sure if it was okay. It was probably more okay than slapping his arse, but he was lost in the date-non-date-ness of things. Besides, even if it was a date, did that make it acceptable—or normal—to hold hands? He couldn’t remember ever holding Greg’s hand, but they’d basically spent the eight months of their relationship in bed because Alfie’d had about ten years of gay sex to get out of his system and Greg had been only too happy to be the altar at which he worshipped. It was only after that they’d realised they had nothing in common, wanted completely different things, and had no reason really to be together. And it was only now he was starting to realise that his time with Greg had given him an excellent grounding in shagging. Absolutely none in anything like…boyfriending.

So he left Fen’s hand alone and led the way across the road and up the narrow staircase into the restaurant, where Mr. Ali and Amjad came rushing over to greet him.

“Alfie, Alfie, good to see you again. Your table’s all ready for you.”

There was kind of a script for this. One that hadn’t changed in all the years Alfie had been coming here.

This was the moment Mr. Ali would stop shaking his hand and ask, “And who is this beautiful…”

Alfie stepped awkwardly aside. There was a tiny, tiny pause that roared in his ears like the engine of the Sagaris.

“…gentleman?”

His mouth had gone completely dry. He croaked something unintelligible.

“Fen,” said Fen crisply.

“Welcome, Fen.” Mr. Ali took his hand and pressed it warmly between both of his.

“Any friend of Alfie Bell’s.”5

Alfie was quietly dying. Fen was pink. “Thank you.”

“This way, please.” With a little flourish, Mr. Ali was leading them to Alfie’s usual booth.

They faced each other in a kind of paralysed silence as they were supplied with menus, a half pint of Cobra for Alfie since he was driving, and a mango lassi—on the house—for Fen. His attempt to turn it down was completely ignored. Alfie could have told him there was no point protesting. That was part of the script too. There was always a mango lassi for Alfie’s girl. Even, apparently, if the girl was a boy.

Finally, they were alone.

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