“It’s designer,” Lex said, but his conviction had already left the building.
“It’s an atrocity. Go and change.”
“Into what? I haven’t got anything else that’s—”
Barnaby took him by the elbow, turned him around, and walked him back down the corridor like a horse being led in from the paddock. Lex let himself be steered, because protesting would have required him to defend the jumpsuit, and that was becoming harder with every step and judgemental squint from Barnaby.
Barnaby pushed open the door to Lex’s room, guided him through it, and surveyed the wardrobe. It was a generous term for what was, in reality, a plywood alcove with a hanging rail and a single shelf. In it were three tracksuits with varying degrees of branding intensity, two pairs of jeans, and a pile of gym vests.
Barnaby was already pulling hangers aside before Lex had finished stepping out of the jumpsuit. Lex stood there in his boxer briefs and didn’t bother reaching for a towel, becausethey’d seen each other naked, and that particular door didn’t close just because the sex had stopped.
The conversation had happened two nights ago, during snack roulette. Lex had been halfway through a packet of something that tasted like pickled ginger had been crossbred with a marshmallow when Barnaby had said, without looking at him, “I think we should just be friends.”
The word had landed with the weight of a door closing. Not slamming. Just clicking shut, the latch catching with a quiet, final sound that left no room for ambiguity.
“Yeah,” Lex had said. “Friends. Definitely.”
Barnaby had nodded. He’d eaten a sakura Kit Kat in three precise bites, folded the wrapper, and set it on the arm of the sofa. Neither of them had spoken for a full ninety seconds, which was the longest Lex had ever gone without filling a silence in his adult life.
The thing was, he liked Barnaby. He proper liked him. So much so that he bought sakura things in bulk and memorised which snacks scored above four chews and below ten. He’d gotten in the habit of scanning the dining hall at breakfast until he found the blond head among the equestrians. He liked Barnaby’s ridiculous palate, and the way his ears went pink when he was caught off guard. Most of all, he liked the elegance of Barnaby’s insults, which were meanly specific in the way that only someone who really liked you bothered to be.
He just couldn’t get his cock in him, and Barnaby couldn’t let him. They’d tried twice. The trying had been tender and patient and a complete fucking disaster. Now they were friends, and that was fine. That was good. Lex knew how to do friends.
“This is all branded,” Barnaby said in disgust.
“I like brands.”
“You like logos. There’s a difference.” Barnaby held up a tracksuit jacket with a swoosh across the chest and set it aside.“My father’s rule: never buy anything you’ve seen on a billboard. If they need to advertise it, it isn’t good enough.”
“That’s the poshest thing you’ve ever said to me, and the bar was already very high.”
Barnaby’s mouth twitched. “I winter in Courchevel and summer in Cardona.”
Lex made a slow, deliberate wanking gesture at him. Barnaby laughed and went back to the hangers.
He pulled a plain white T-shirt from the shelf, held it up. Then he pulled out a pair of dark jeans. “Put these on,” Barnaby said, tossing them onto the bed. He went back to the rail and extracted a navy blazer that Lex’s stylist had packed for exactly this kind of occasion and that Lex had ignored in favour of the Gucci. Barnaby held it by the shoulders, turned it, checked the lining, and nodded. “And this.”
“A blazer? I’m not going to a christening.”
“You’re going to a media day where you will be photographed representing your country. Put the jeans on.”
Lex stepped into the jeans. They were slim-fit, dark indigo, and sat properly on his waist. He pulled the white T-shirt over his head. Barnaby circled him, adjusting the collar where it sat against his neck, tugging the hem so it fell straight across his hips. Lex held still and let him fiddle with his clothing, landing the occasional snippy comment, because the alternative was acknowledging that Barnaby’s hands on him still made his pulse kick up.
“Blazer,” Barnaby said, holding it open.
Lex shrugged into it. The lining was cool against his arms, and the shoulders sat square across his frame without pulling. Barnaby stepped back, assessed him from three angles, and reached forward to fold the cuffs of the blazer twice, exposing the white lining against the dark fabric.
“Sleeves up?”
“It’s called pushing the cuffs. It stops you looking like you’re on your way to a job interview.” Barnaby straightened the lapel, his thumb running along the edge of the fabric. “You’ve got trainers that aren’t covered in logos?”
“White Air Force 1s.”
“Those will do.”
Lex sat on the bed to lace them up. When he stood, Barnaby’s gaze tracked from Lex’s shoulders down to the cuffed blazer sleeves, across his chest, and settled somewhere around his jaw before snapping back to his eyes.
“Better,” Barnaby said.
