Page 84 of Pansies

“You daft bugger.” He put a hand on Fen’s chest and shoved him down onto the futon. “I’d find you sexy if you were covered in socks.”

“What if I was wearing one massive sock?”

“Like a onesie?”

“Yes. A socksie.”

He reached out and tugged the sock from Fen’s upraised foot. Brandished it for a moment—ta-da—then tossed it over his shoulder. “You’ll have to work a lot harder than that to turn me off.”

Fen smiled, a little shyly, and held out his arms, and Alfie fell into them, like he’d been waiting for it all his life. It was such a simple thing, the closeness of two bodies, but right then, it was everything, everything he’d ever wanted. And having it—even if it was just a taste, a memory in the making of a thing that was probably far too complicated—made him feel awkward. As though he might break if it wasn’t for Fen wrapped around him like a scarf in winter, his legs pressed hard to Alfie’s hips, holding him tight.

“You’re sure this is okay?” Fen asked.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I can’t really see what you’re getting out of it.”

“I’m getting to be with you.”

“While I’m unconscious.”

“Well”—Alfie smirked into Fen’s neck—“you’re a lot nicer that way.” Teeth nipped sharply at his earlobe. “Not helping your case here.”

Fen wriggled an arm free and pulled off his glasses, tuckingthem by the side of the mattress. Then he unbunched the duvet and dragged it over them. In small, instinctive movements, they untangled and retangled, finding ways to fit together. There was a bossiness, somehow, to Fen’s cuddling. He burrowed right in. Got a knee between Alfie’s legs. Curled his hand possessively over a hip. And Alfie simply let himself be arranged. Lost himself to heat and skin and the intimacy of a heart beating next to his own.

“God, you give good hug, Alfie Bell.”3

He cupped a hand round the back of Fen’s neck and slowly slid down his spine, feeling the muscles yield beneath the pressure of his palm. “Shhh.”

The first warm flush of sleep crept over Fen like sunrise. His body grew lax, then restless, and then quiet again beneath the slow, steady sweep of Alfie’s hands. His face, without glasses or grief or some other animation, looked almost unlike him. Too empty, too open. Profoundly naked and fairy-tale pretty, the tips of his eyelashes glinting against his cheeks, and his mouth a waiting kiss. And Alfie was staring. Like some kind of creepy bastard. He snugged himself into the covers and closed his eyes. Listened to the rhythm of Fen breathing. Breathed in the scent of his skin…

And must have dozed off in that pool of shared heat and bodily closeness because when he opened his eyes again, the light had thickened like honey and Fen was a boneless sprawl, half on top of him. But Alfie’s waking seemed to rouse Fen somehow, and he jerked up, cracking Alfie soundly under the chin with the top of his head.4

“Oh God, oh fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you sure?” Fen pulled back, blinking, and batting not too soothingly at Alfie’s jaw.

“Yeah but”—Alfie caught his hand—“I might change my mind if you punch me in the face.”

“Sorry.” Fen shook a tangle of hair out of his eyes. He looked mussed and sleepy and confused and, frankly, adorable. Then suddenly he was staring at Alfie’s hand, still wrapped around his wrist, and something hot and shuddery ran through his whole body, so strong that Alfie felt it too, like their skin was water and where they touched made ripples. Fen’s lips parted, but all he said was, “Oh.” A little bit shocked, a little bit…not.

Alfie let go as soon as Fen tugged. Let him wriggle away and flump into the space beside him.

For a moment, neither of them said anything, Alfie staring at the cracks on the ceiling, Fen idly running his own thumb over the place where Alfie’s hand had been.

“Fen?” he asked.

“Mmm?”

“Why do you like it when I…you know…when I hold you?”

“Because you’re like a big, muscular, partially erect teddy bear.”

Alfie laughed. “No, I meant pinning your hands and stuff.”

“Oh. That. Um.”

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