Page 97 of Pansies

“Bye, mam. Thanks for the cuppa.”

17

It was a little bit after five by the time Alfie made it back to Pansies, bursting through the door with his arms full of graffiti-removal supplies. Fen was closing up, tugging the unsold flowers into the cold room at the back. He looked tired, tousled, and a little bit sweaty, and greeted Alfie without even looking up.

“I’ve still got some stuff to do down here, so you might as well head on up. Make yourself comfy. Um, if that’s even possible in my flat.”

“Got something to take care of first.” Alfie sourced a bucket from the pile and tugged on his safety gloves.

That got Fen’s attention. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m going to scrub that crap off the safety grille.”

He wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting or hoping for. Vague interest would have been nice. But all he got was, “Don’t waste your time.”

“Doesn’t feel like a waste of time to me.”

Fen shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Doesn’t it bug you?” Alfie was scrutinising the instructions on his graffiti-removal solvent. It seemed pretty straightforward, but then so had the plaster mix, and he wasn’t taking any chances. “Having it there?”

A rough, exasperated sigh. “Yes, if I think about it. But I don’t think about it. I only have so much space in my heart, so I have to prioritise what upsets me. Nonsense like that wouldn’t make the top twenty.”1

“Well, I’m still going to do something about it.”

“As I said: suit yourself.”

Alfie grabbed his bucket—which he hoped was full of correctly made-up graffiti remover—and headed outside. The words were stubborn, but so was Alfie. It took him a good hour or so of furious scrubbing with the wire wool, and most of the bottle of solvent, but he did manage to get the grille clean. It didn’t exactly look good—it looked like somebody had scoured the surface off the metal—butfaggotwas gone. Then he ditched his gloves and sluiced out the bucket, and headed upstairs after Fen.

He was sprawled on the sofa, a bottle of wine on the floor beside him, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. At least, until he started guiltily and crushed it out on a nearby saucer.

“If that’s for me, there’s no need.”

There was a telltale flush, bright across Fen’s cheeks. “But isn’t kissing a boy who smokes like licking an ashtray?”

“Dunno.”

Alfie leaned over him, fit his palms to Fen’s jaw, and turned his face up. Held him there for a moment, his stubble-flecked throat pulled taut, and then kissed him. Fen quivered, a sound somewhere between protest and surrender catching against Alfie’s lips. And then there was nothing but surrender, Alfie’s tongue sliding deep, deep, and deeper, into the clinging warmth of Fen’s mouth.

“Seems alreet to me,” he said, finally drawing back. “Not sure there’s much could put me off kissing you.”

“All the same.” Fen swung his feet off the sofa and took the saucer into the boxy kitchen. “I shouldn’t be smoking.”

“I have to say, I’m not massively keen on you dying of lung cancer.”

“It’s more not knowing if I’m choosing anymore.”

“It’s the lung cancer,” repeated Alfie firmly, not wanting to get dragged into a philosophical discussion about addictive, bad-for-you substances. “You got plans for dinner?”

Fen came back into the room. “That bottle of ‘crisp and fruity’ Blossom Hill?”

Flinching, Alfie picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and took a sniff. “Wow, you should’ve said you had this. I wouldn’t have needed to buy that solvent.”

“Alfie Bell: wine snob?”

“I’m not,” he lied. “It’s just…if I’m gan te put summin in my mouth, I’d like it to be nice.”2

A flicker of gold as Fen blinked. “I don’t drink for a sensual experience. I drink to get drunk.”

---