Stefan shrugs. “Somewhere. Went out for a drink with some guys from his office and then said he might go back to the office and finish a bunch of paperwork. Who knows? I’m not his keeper.”
I’m not sure he’s yours, eithercatches in the back of my throat, but I hold it in, casting my gaze around the flat instead, checking to see if much has changed. Stefan’s place is far bigger than Gerald’s, although Gerald’s little sofa is much comfier. Stefan’s gaming sofa has been flattened by a lot of sweaty gamers’ arses. Gerald’s telly’s better too, even if he only seems to have it switched to educational channels.
“I kind of had some sexy times with…um… Gerald at the weekend.” I’ve been itching to tell someone—even my toes were getting fidgety. I time my confession so Stefan’s volley of missiles misses an entire attacking army of alien Vikings, thus awarding me bonus points. Little touches like that solidify a friendship, I find.
“Fuck you, Alaric. Fuck you.”
The thump and dead arm aresoworth it. “Alas, not yet. Probably never. Casual’s not Gerald’s thing; I caught him at a weak moment. Namely with two whole pints of Rock Export swilling in his veins and me in my Stüssy trousers, you know, the ones that turn my arse into a public service announcement.”
“Even I’d consider doing you in those.”
“Exactly. And the sexing was…well…he’s…um…quite dominant.”
Stefan cocks a brow at me, one eye still on the screen in case I attempt any more subversive manoeuvres. “And you liked that, did you?”
“Yeah.” My dick twitches—again—at the memory.
Jabbing the controller hard, Stefan purses his lips. “I’m not surprised.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “You need telling what to do. Stops you overthinking stuff.”
Hmm. I sit with that. I didn’t think Stefan had the capacity to surprise me anymore. It’s not only offering a new opinion; it also sounds awfully true. I can still feel the imprint of Gerald’s hand covering my thigh in the Uber, preventing my leg from jiggling in time to my racing thoughts. It stilled my brain, too.
“This is the same Gerald we’re talking about, isn’t it?” he adds. “The guy you said has a well-thumbed book about the history of concrete on his bookcase? And told you not to use the kettle on alternate Thursdays, so he can descale it?”
“Yeah.”And also the one who told me to shush, and I fucking did. Instantly.
Judge less, Alaric. Or at least not so swiftly. Yes, Gerald might have issued me an exceedingly thorough set of ground rules when I first met him, but Isaac and Luke were one hundred percent right all along. When you get to know Gerald, he’s terrifyingly interesting. Next time I watch him clean the oven door with a specialist spray he orders from a shop in The Netherlands and then wipes it down so I can literally see the tiny brown mole next to my cock in it, I’ll be wondering whether he’s using the time to plot his next sequence of dog dancing moves. Or, more recently, if he’s contemplating banging me against it.
I take a sip of cherry Coke. “Same Gerald.”
The cherry Coke’s okay, but I prefer drinking it at Gerald’s. He always insists I have it in a glass because he says it tastesbetter. If I look at him all wide-eyed and helpless, he’ll even get up off the sofa, retrieve a glass from the kitchen, and pour it for me too. “I don’t make a habit of collecting Geralds. I invited him to Earth, seeing as we’d had a mini tiff, and I want to stay friends with him after I move out, ‘cos he’s nice. Anyway, we danced and… it sort of just happened.”
“But he doesn’t want you to corrupt him again.”
“No, it goes against his principles. He doesn’t do casual sex. More’s the pity.”
Stefan glances over at me. “Maybe for him it’s not casual.”
“OMG, it definitely was.” I recall the pained regret on Gerald’s features as he turned away from where I lay in a heap on my bed, damp and naked and thoroughly used.We should consider this something we did and won’t do againwere his stern parting words. “He even told me so himself. He’s kind of all serious and intellectual. He’d not had sex for four years, I wiggled my hips and, for a short moment in time, those Stüssy trousers made him re-evaluate his whole existence. And now, sadly, he’s back on track.”
There’s leftover lasagne in the fridge.Needs water sprinkling on the top, then four minutes in the microwave on the second setting. Gone to church hall with Elsa.
As messages go, it’s bland, instructional, and very Gerald. Perhaps that’s why it does something to me. I eat the lasagne in the kitchen, at the mini breakfast bar. Gerald would approve. He’s a decent cook, not flashy, but decent. Afterwards, I rinse my plate and stack it in the dishwasher. Then check the time. If I leave now, I’ll catch most of his practice. Only one week left until the regional finals.
When I slip into the church hall, they’re rehearsing the tricky midsection. Gerald has the song broken up into four loops toconcentrate on different parts at a time. Not wanting Elsa to lose focus, I lean against a wall near the door, watching. All tight muscles and quiet strength, Gerald spins in place with his arms stretched high above his head—gorgeously, I may add. Meanwhile, Elsa performs looping circles around him in the opposite direction. It’s a move 50% grace, 50% trust, and, the way Gerald performs, 100% sex. To be honest, Elsa could be coiling out a turd at this point, and no one in the audience would notice or give a stuff.
Throwing me a wave and Elsa a titbit, he moves into the next sequence. He’s wearing one of his navy sweatpants, loose T-shirt combos. A cute, satiny scarf drapes around Elsa’s neck in the same colour.
“It’s to get her used to wearing it,” Gerald informs me when he reaches the end. He’s slightly out of breath, his hair damp where it touches his scalp. “For when she does the actual performance.”
“What are you going to wear?”
Gerald shrugs. “I haven’t given it much thought yet. It’s only the regionals. Maybe I’ll stick to plain black trousers and a black shirt? I have a pair of old black ballet trousers that look like normal bootleg-type trousers but with more stretch.”
“What do people normally wear?”
