Completely engrossed in boiling down his final paragraph to something that was clear and concise without losing the main thread of his argument altogether, Dave only registered the steady sound of knocking after several minutes had elapsed.
Blinking, he looked up and realised that the bright promise of the sunny June morning had mutated into the warm grey of an overcast English summer's afternoon. Breakfast and lunchtime had passed and gone without him noticing, which was all to the good since there wasn't much that was edible in his fridge and larder, but -
- Shit. Someone at the door.
Maybe if he stayed quiet, whoever-it-was would go away?
No. Fuck it, Dave, don't be such a bloody coward.
Even as he briefly considered hiding until the visitor had left, Dave was reluctantly putting his laptop down and making for the front door, refusing to acknowledge the apprehension churning at the pit of his stomach at the mere thought of having to speak to someone. Anyone.
When he fastened the anti-intruder bolt and chain and cautiously eased his door open he saw, through the two-inch gap, a tall, long-limbed youngish man - just about his own age, in fact - with tousled, dark bronze hair hanging untidily over his forehead, leaning one shoulder against the door jamb while continuing to knock on the peeling wood panels with a steady, determined beat. As if he would be willing to stand there hitting his knuckles against the door all day, if that was what it took to get an answer.
Dave blinked, feeling an odd, not unpleasant tingle run through him as the visitor straightened with a warm smile wreathing his handsome, boyish features. Intelligent blue-grey eyes meeting Dave's wary gaze with infectious warmth, the stranger said cheerfully,
“Hello! I'm canvassing on behalf of your Liberal Democrat candidate for the European Parliament - can we count on your vote?”
Christ, not some sandal-wearing bleeding-heart Liberal! That's all I need - Dave began to stammer out some apologetic bollocks about being far too busy to talk, anything to get away from the door and the dangerously attractive man smiling at him from the hall, but the stranger's grin, as bright and sunny as the golden-yellow lapel badge pinned to his rather unfortunate brown corduroy jacket, only widened.
Then the man cocked his head to one side, his expression changing into something more challenging, though still scarily friendly.
“Oh, come on now,” he dared to interrupt Dave's hesitant, embarrassed attempts to send him away, “It'll only take a few minutes. You can spare that, surely, a good-looking chap like you. I'm a genuine campaigner - I could even show you my card, if you'd like -”
Stunned at his abrupt realisation that the man was - was flirting! With him! - Dave suddenly noticed, wrapped about one of the canvasser's strong wrists, a narrow rainbow-coloured wristband. It looked identical to the one he'd carefully donned the day before when he'd ventured out, full of a mixture of trepidation and grim determination, to his very first Gay Pride event.
The experience had proved something of an anti-climax. In the days leading up to the festival, a precursor to the main parade which was due to take place in a few weeks, he'd imagined - obsessed over - every possible scenario, from meeting his soul-mate to getting gay-bashed on his way home, but as it turned out the event, while pleasant and enjoyable enough, had left him feeling depressed, lonely, and full of self-directed anger at how utterly useless he was. He was never going to meet anyone, never find that Other he so desperately longed for, when he could barely even speak to a strange man without blushing furiously and blurting out some useless inanity. Even assuming that he could think of anything to say...
He'd returned home as miserable and frustrated as when he'd left.
He certainly hadn't seen this handsome stranger among the happy crowds filling the park, but there was that rainbow wrist band -
Suddenly Dave found himself fumbling at the chain, sliding the bolt back and swinging the door wider while to his own astonishment he heard his own voice, stilted and shy but determined, inviting the stranger in for a chat.
“Thanks, I will, it's thirsty work, this!” was the cheerful response as the stranger stepped into the dark, narrow alcove that served as a kind of hallway between the entrance and the main room and then waited while Dave closed his door with the practiced little shove which made the locks engage fully.
“The name's Nick - Nick Clegg,” the visitor continued easily, his light, slighty husky voice sending a pleasant thrill through his audience.
“David Cameron. My fre - most, er, most people call me Dave.” Wincing at his own clumsiness, Dave hurried on, “I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure I've only got instant coffee. Or, or there's tea -”
“- Tea is fine,” was the amiable response. “I prefer it to coffee most of the time. Milk, no sugar!”
Deprived of his next question and thus of anything else to say, Dave fell silent, unnerved, and dumbly gestured his visitor - Bloody hell, he had a visitor! Now what? - into the cramped, bare little flat to sit down in the one battered armchair while Dave busied himself in the tiny kitchen area, boiling a kettle, getting out the tea bags, fussing with mugs and spoons and milk...
… Out of the corner of his eye he watched his... visitor... stretch out long - really, very long, Dave thought with an odd fluttering sensation in his stomach - legs, lean back in his chair and examine his surroundings with unabashed curiosity. Dave didn't have to look, he knew what - Nick. His name is Nick - was seeing, and felt a hot flush of shame mantle his cheeks. Small and dark, an oven in summer and a fridge in winter, crammed in under the eaves of a big old Victorian house unsympathetically converted into bedsits in the fifties, this place would be no-one's choice as a place to live.
But it had a halfway decent shower room, it was handy for the Tube and the buses, and most importantly, it was cheap - draughts, damp, cockroaches and all. Plus - pure serendipity, this - in the last few months Dave had discovered an unofficial wireless hot spot on the edge of the shopping centre barely a hundred yards away, where an office supplies firm had been a bit careless configuring their new wireless network.
“I like what you've done with the kitchen, it's more like a garden,” came the comment, and startled out of his thoughts, Dave looked up.
Nick was smiling at him, his eyes full of warmth and interest - in him? Why? - and Dave was unable to prevent a hesitant, tentative quirk of his lips in return. Then, as the other's cheerful comment registered, Dave glanced round at his shelves of tiny re-used yoghurt pots, each holding a valiant sprig of green and carefully labelled in meticulous script; the wide window box visible through the open window, enlivening the grim view of roofs and chimney pots with the addition of tightly packed plants overflowing their container in a vigorous tumble of colour; the delicate fronds of tomato plants, thick with tiny green globes, that filled the windowsill proper, and the neat row of more conventional indoor plants lined up on the half-wall separating the kitchen area from the main room.
“I - yes. The kitchen gets the most daylight, so it's the best place for... I, um, get them cheap at the end of trading, from the Saturday Market on the High Street. I like growing things, but when you're on the fourth floor...”
Picking up both mismatched mugs and silently thanking heaven for his foresight in buying two from the charity shop instead of just the one, though until now he'd never understood why he'd bothered, Dave brought them across to where Nick was sitting. Handing one over, Dave adopted his own favoured position, sitting down on the side of the narrow bed tucked up against one wall under the slope of the roof.
“I'm sorry,” he said again, feeling his face burning, “I - there aren't any biscuits, I haven't had time to go shopping this week.”
That was a lie, and Dave was miserably sure that Nick knew it was, although the man was too polite to say so. It was a long time since Dave had had the funds for luxuries like biscuits.
Nick pulled a humorously-regretful face and took a sip of his tea with a sigh of satisfaction.
“This is fine. Honestly,” he said sincerely.
Then he nodded at the laptop, hard disk murmuring as it shut itself down, still lying on the bed where Dave had left it when he went to answer the door.
“I'm sorry, I must have interrupted you at your work.”
Dave flushed again, reaching across to close the lid and put the laptop into its case on the floor before hiding behind his tea once more. “No, it's fine,” he muttered. “Really - I'd nearly finished -”
“Are you a writer?”
“I - sort of, I suppose. It - Nothing very interesting. I mean, what I was writing. I, I do... articles. For newspapers and magazines...”
“You're a journalist! Gosh, I used to do a bit of that myself - still do, when I have time! Are you with anyone in particular, or are you freelance?”
Nick sounded delighted, but Dave couldn't believe that he was as interested as he sounded. Nick was in politics, after all. Dave remembered that world very well, and one of its primary skills was to seem absolutely fascinated by whoever you were meeting or having a conversation with, as if they were the most important person in the world. To make them feel valued - important - interesting .
Nick would go far - he was very good at it, anyone else would have been completely taken in. Not Dave, though. David Cameron knew that Nick couldn't possibly be as fascinated or as interested as he seemed to be... Not when he was talking to a nonentity like Dave.
Still, for a little while, it was good to pretend.
… Nick had asked him about the article he was writing.
“It's for The Economist,” he explained hesitantly, wondering how much detail to go into, what Nick's boredom threshold was, whether he should leave it at that or explain further. But his listener was nodding at him to go on, eyes still bright with interest, and reluctantly, convinced that he would be boring his audience to death within seconds, Dave complied.
“I'm... it's nothing very interesting, really. I specialise in pieces about the economy - the banking system - trade - things like that. This one was about debt relief in Central America... I've been working on it for a while, I couldn't get it to flow properly and I got completely wrapped up in it, which is why I didn't hear you knocking, I'm sorry -”
“The Economist, huh?” Nick whistled appreciatively, his grey eyes full of respect. “I've done some work for trade organisations myself, in Eastern Europe mainly. I've written one or two pieces for the Economist, and one thing I do remember is how picky they are! If they like your work you must be good!”
Dave went bright red, ducking his head shyly so that his dark, overlong hair flopped untidily over his high forehead. “I - I really do think this might get me a few offers,” he agreed. “I've even been promised my own byeline... if they like it, that is. And the fee - if they pay me what they've promised - I could finish paying -”
Stunned at what he'd been about to say, he fell abruptly silent, swallowing the words that had come so oddly easily. What had he been doing! He couldn't open himself up that way, not to anyone!
Still shocked at the way he'd so nearly dropped his barriers, Dave stared fixedly at the floor for a moment, fighting to hide his dismay, then made himself look back at the man sitting opposite him.
“I... um,” he said awkwardly, hunting desperately for a way to change the subject.
Clearly reading Dave's discomfort even if he didn't know what had caused it, Nick tipped his mug, finishing the last of his tea. Leaning over to place it on the battered bedside cabinet, he began to push himself up and out of his chair.
“Well, I'd better be going,” he said, a note of regret in his voice, “There's always more doors to knock on and more voters to talk to -”
Then somehow, as he straightened up, he seemed to wince. With a choked-off gasp of pain one leg gave way and he staggered, flinging out his arms in a futile attempt to keep his balance.
“ Wha - look out!” Dave threw his own arms up as he saw Nick's flailing body fall towards him, but had no time for anything more before the other crashed into him and they fell back across the bed with simultaneous 'oofs!' ss their breath exploded out of them at the impact.
“Shit - sorry, my fault -” muttered Nick, squirming frantically. Winded - Nick might be lightly built for his height, but he was nevertheless a substantial weight, most of which had landed full on the other man, knocking him flat - Dave tried to lie still and recover his breath while desperately trying not to react. Nick's warm, lean body was writhing around on top of him, while Nick, muttering frantic apologies all the while, tried to get some purchase on the soft mattress.
Dave swallowed. It was an extremely pleasant sensation, feeling another strong male body on top of his, and one that was far too close to certain closely-guarded night-time fantasies of his... He set his teeth, frantically trying to fight his reaction back under control as he felt his cock twitch and begin to harden under the warm, wriggling weight on top of him -
Oh God. Not now -
But Nick was sorting himself out. His long arms and legs flailed briefly before his feet found the floor, his hands settling either side of Dave's head. Then he began to push himself back onto his feet, with due concern for the slant of the ceiling above his head, and still apologising.
“God, I'm sorry. It's this bloody hip of mine, I smashed it up a few years ago and every now and then it decides to act up -”
As Nick was talking he levered himself back and away, his lower torso briefly pressing down on Dave's, and he hesitated.
“Oh...”
Drowning in shame, his face burning, Dave looked away, wanting to say something - anything - to apologise for the hardness tenting his worn jeans, but far too embarrassed to speak.
Moving slowly and with a certain amount of care for that damaged hip, Nick worked himself back to his feet and straightened to his full height. Dave shot him a quick, nervous sideways glance and felt himself relax - just a little. Nick's face was thoughtful, not angry. There was no move to storm furiously out of the flat. Instead, after a brief rub of his chin and a careful study of the silent, apprehensive man on the bed, Nick's face eased into an oddly gentle smile.
“You're gay too, aren't you?”
Slowly Dave sat up, his eyes fixed on the other. At this he hesitated, then nodded once before looking fixedly at his lap, hating the way the thin cotton of his very old, very worn jeans blatantly displayed the state of his arousal, dreading the reaction of his visitor - God, here he was perving over a complete stranger right under the man's nose!
“S-sorry,” he muttered in a constricted voice, “God, I'm sorry. What you must think of m-”
A large, blunt-fingered hand was laid across his mouth, silencing him. “- Don't, Dave. Please. Why do you think I accepted your offer of tea in the first place? But then I, I thought I'd got it wrong, and that you weren't interested...”
Behind the hand Dave shook his head frantically, his eyes clinging to Nick's. Then he grabbed Nick's wrist and pulled his hand away, holding on to it as he said, the words tumbling over themselves in his haste,
“No, I'm - God, yes - of course I want - I mean, I couldn't believe that anyone that good-looking could, could want... and then I - I couldn't think of anything to say, and - and...”
Nick kissed him.
It wasn't like Dave had dreamed - it was so, so much better. So much more real... Nick's lips were dry and slightly rough on his, and Dave could smell tobacco on the other's breath, giving him a sudden, incongruous longing for the cigarettes he had given up years ago. Then Nick's hands were on his body, pulling up his old jumper, scrabbling their way under his shirt, sliding across his skin even as Nick's tongue demanded entry into Dave's willing mouth, and Dave groaned deep in his throat, arching his back. Sudden, imperative hunger clawed through him, setting his blood pounding, and he reached for Nick, wanting to feel Nick's skin under his hands, wanting to touch and taste and feel and smell and wanting it all nownow now -
He fell back on the bed, pulling Nick with him so that they were back in the position they had been in barely minutes before with Nick's long, lean body pressing him into the mattress - but how different now! Nick's mouth devoured his; Nick's hands seemed to be everywhere, caressing and stroking - and then he palmed a nipple. And Dave heard himself whimper in pure, overwehelming need , thrusting upwards in a desperate attempt to feel Nick's hardness against his, and he heard Nick gasp something in a guttural, unfamiliar language even as he responded, and then there was only heat and hardness, friction and rhythm and... ah yes, there -
Dave felt Nick freeze, his breath catching, while the man's hips stuttered and thrust once - twice... warm wetness spread at his groin, and it was enough. With a strangled cry Dave felt himself convulse, lights sparking behind his eyelids as he came, and came, and came...
Some unspecified time later, the dead weight on top of him stirred, and a tired, sated voice said with some feeling,
“Ugh. I hope you've got some spare trousers.”
“Hmm...?”
Too relaxed to answer properly, Dave turned his head to meet the grey-blue eyes next to his own on the pillow and felt his face break into a wide grin. Somewhere at the back of his mind a small voice was informing him that he probably looked like a brainless, lovesick puppy, but right now Dave couldn't bring himself to care. Nick's eyes were heavy-lidded and satisfied, his face still flushed, and Dave could not resist leaning forward to press his lips to the ones so temptingly close. The response was immediate and most satisfactory, and it was some time before Dave remembered Nick's comment. Eventually, however, the rapidly-cooling patch of stickiness over his belly and groin became too insistent to be ignored any longer, and Dave pulled away with a sigh of regret.
“I've made a real mess, I'm sorry -”
“- Hey.”
Once again Nick's fingers were on his mouth, silencing him. Just for the fun of it, Dave sucked two of them into his mouth and held them there, caressing them lovingly with his tongue, and watched Nick's eyes darken even as he said,
“It was me just as much as you, Dave. Stop apologising! But I, I really have to, to... wash and... um...”
Closing his eyes, Nick clearly made a heroic effort and withdrew his hand slowly and regretfully from Dave's mouth, then pushed himself up and off the bed. As he straightened up to his full height the large damp stain on his trousers became fully visible, and Nick stared down at himself with a disgruntled expression.
“ Godverdamme ! I can't go out like this, and I really ought to try and cover a few more streets -”
Dave had followed Nick up and off the bed; now he waved at the door next to the kitchen area.
“I've got a shower - it's small, but it's not too bad. You're welcome to use it,” he offered. “I think I've got a spare pair of jeans somewhere. They might be a bit short in the leg, but -”
“No, I'm sure they'll be fine,” was Nick's response with a quick smile. “Thank you. I won't be long, I promise.”
Even as he spoke he was retreating in the direction of Dave's tiny but functional shower room, and Dave heard the hiss of his somewhat meagre shower start up. Hastily, trying to ignore the damp patch on his own jeans, Dave checked the electricity meter and put in a few more coins, just to be on the safe side, then while he was waiting dug out his spare pair of jeans for Nick - old and distressed, but still just about wearable - and found himself the pair of cut-down jeans he wore around the flat in hot weather when the place turned into an oven even with all the windows open.
As he padded around the flat, opening and shutting drawers, getting changed, finding Nick clean underwear, packing soiled garments into a bag ready for the laundrette, Dave's euphoria slowly faded. Gradually he began to tell himself, with increasing fierceness, not to expect too much. What had happened, after all? Just a quick bout of frottage, nothing to write home about... just a, a bit of fun, a bit of relaxation - he couldn't expect someone like Nick to be interested in anything more, not with someone like him...
… And he should be grateful, Dave told himself firmly. He'd had his first gay encounter, and it had been... bloody marvellous. Far better than his dreams, something to provide plenty of wank material -
- except that he didn't want wank material.
He wanted Nick.
Oh, fuck .
Dave felt the bottom fall out of his stomach as he realised where his thoughts were going. Suddenly - all at once, and without warning - he was in too deep, and the idea terrified him. All those other thoughts which were coming into his head when he thought of Nick - gloriously dirty, sweaty thoughts which he already knew were going to possess him at night, in the privacy of his own narrow little bed, when he was going to pretend that the warm, demanding hand on his prick was Nick's and not his own, when he was going to imagine that the touch opening him up and seeking that sweet spot deep inside was the assured, caring touch of another, not his own clumsy, sweating fingers... When the vision which would make him spill into his own hand would be of Nick inside him, Nick fucking him hard and long and oh, so lovingly...
And those other dreams that were all at once there, right there in his head! Sprung into being as if they'd been there all along, just waiting for the right person to give them shape and substance! Dreams of spending time with Nick, going down the pub together or to see a film, or... maybe coming in from work to find Nick already home, or of being there when Nick returned and seeing his face brighten when Dave entered the room... Of sharing not just a bed, but a home. A life.
The other - that was just sex. He could - perhaps, with an effort and a bit of self-control - dismiss those as nothing more than his libido needing a workout. It wasn't as if Dave wasn't used to keeping those passions under strict control, after all - and they were harmless enough if they did get away from him, produced little more than stained sheets, a restless night and a day's depression after the come-down.
But the rest of it, that was all - feelings. Feelings that he'd thought safely frozen away, somewhere on the other side of the raw pain and disbelief and sheer, bloody-minded anger that tore at him whever he tried to navigate the shaky seas of feelings and emotions and, and people -
Don't say a word, Dave told himself fiercely. Don't let Nick know - this will be the very last thing he'll want, some needy failure of a nerd hanging on to him like a - like a hormone-ridden teenager! He was up for some fun and games, and it was great and that - is - that! Now, leave it!
Dave's increasingly tormented inner debate was interrupted by Nick's emergence from the shower room, head enveloped in one of Dave's ratty towels which he was using to dry his hair and with another towel wrapped around his narrow hips.
“Oh, that's great,” Nick said, seeing the change of clothes Dave had laid out on the bed. “Those'll do nicely - thanks, Dave, it's...”
As Nick's voice trailed into silence Dave looked round, puzzled, and felt his mouth go dry. The expression in those grey eyes... The man was - was devouring him - he shifted uncomfortably, feeling heat rise as that burning gaze swept over him from head to toe, lingering pointedly at his tight, threadbare cut-offs.
“Bloody hell, how am I ever going to tear myself away if you wear gear like that when I'm around - fuck, you're gorgeous -”
- and then Nick was on him, towel falling unregarded to the floor as hands gripped fiercely at the torn denim covering his arse, fingers finding their way through the tears in the worn material to knead at the bare cheeks beneath, hungry lips on his and tongue plundering his willing, open mouth. Nick thrust his naked body fiercely against Dave's half-clothed one, forcing moans from deep in Dave's throat; Nick's generously furred chest rubbed against Dave's smooth skin, Dave's head falling back as Nick's tongue trailed down the line of his neck to his throat where that clever mouth sucked and bit - there would be a mark, Dave knew it. Nick was marking him - making him his ... the thought made him groan even louder, his own hands rubbing across Nick's lean, muscled shoulders and back and down to cup the tight, muscular arse...
Greatly daring, Dave dropped his own head, searching for and finding one hard, erect nub of nipple and tentatively biting at it, then caressing it with his tongue as Nick tensed and arched towards him with a soft unintelligible expletive.
Then Nick's hands were at his waist, deftly popping the catch on his cut-offs, folding them back to get at his already-hard cock and fuck but that felt so good as a big hand closed around his hardness and moved and gripped and worked ...
Helplessly, knees buckling, Dave shot to climax with brutal, frantic immediacy, his cry muffled against Nick's still-damp neck. Nuzzling into Nick's shoulder, Dave could only let the explosion take him, too shaken and aroused to do anything else.
“God,” he said eventually, lifting his head, feeling the aftershocks still sending sparks through him, “God, Nick, I -”
Then, as his brain finally caught up, Dave realised that it had all been distinctly one way. “Ah, fuck - Sorry, I -”
“Wow,” Nick's voice was pleased, stunned and smug, all at once. “I haven't been this quick off the mark since I was a teenager!”
He blinked at Dave with such a wide, happy grin that Dave couldn't help returning it - especially when he saw the evidence of Nick's own climax writ large across the man's luxuriant body hair. Nick's face was flushed and damp with sweat, his eyes, when Dave met them, drowsy with aftermath.
“At least this time I'm not wearing anything to get messed up,” the other continued in a satisfied tone. “I'll just go and wash this off - in the basin, not the shower, I don't want to use up all your hot water!”
Dave found himself smiling in response as Nick went to wash for a second time - then he stared down at his own sticky, stained cut-offs and shrugged. He didn't have anything else to change into, other than his interview suit - and he certainly wasn't going to risk the only high-quality item of clothing he possessed! Rinse the shorts through and wear them dry, he decided - the denim was so thin and old it wouldn't take very long for them to dry out.
He had re-donned the damp but now clean garment and turned to the washing up - trying very hard not to think at all through the post-coital lassitude which possessed him and on the whole succeeding very well - when Nick reappeared fully dressed, having retreated to the shower room with the change of clothes this time. Jeans suited him, Dave decided dreamily, running an appreciative eye over the way the tight denim emphasised Nick's long legs and tight behind. The T-shirt looked pretty good too, pointing up Nick's strong forearms and showing teasing tufts of ruddy hair at the neck... greatly daring, Dave essayed a compliment.
“Those clothes suit you.”
“Not half as much as torn cut-offs and nothing else suit you!” was the retort. “Those things are frankly obscene, but damn, you look good in them!”
Fearing ridicule, Dave sneaked a look sideways and was relieved to see that Nick was smiling. Flushing, he looked down at his hands, busy washing the dirty mugs, and silently acknowledged that no matter how damp and unpleasant the denim felt on his naked skin, it was worth it if the cut-offs brought that hungry look to Nick's eyes every time.
...Every time? Was he really expecting to see Nick again?
No. Don't hope - don't ask -
“Will I see you again?”
The words hung in the air and Dave screwed his eyes shut, mortified at his blurted, desperate question. Fuck. Just - fuck -
But Nick's reply was immediate and definite.
“Of course! Would tomorrow evening be all right with you?”
Dave's eyes flew to Nick's face, trying to spot any deception, but the man seemed completely open and sincere... Though Nick was a politician, as that little voice in the back of Dave's head kept warning him. Politicians were very good at telling people what they wanted to hear.
“Tomorrow - would be fine, yes. I'll - I'll see you tomorrow, then...?”
Even to himself Dave sounded unsure and he winced. Nice one, Dave. Sound incredibly needy and desperate, why don't you...
Nick had been shrugging into his jacket preparatory to leaving, but at this he paused, studying Dave's averted, lip-biting face. Then, with an air of decision, he pulled out his mobile phone, checked for a signal and dialled a number.
“Jonny, hi - no, I won't get to Paternoster Lane or Beechlands, you were right. I'll bring the completed cards in tomorrow, if that's ok? Fine - yes, see you - oh, ha ha, tell Paddy I'm shaking in my shoes - yeah, right - you too - 'bye.”
The phone was returned to the jacket, the jacket rehung on the back of the chair, and Nick was in front of him, one hand tipping up Dave's chin so that he could meet the other's eyes.
“Now,” said Nick softly, “What's all this? Cold feet? I think... you're new to all this, aren't you?”
Dave flushed and hastily looked away. “Um, of course not!” he answered, too heartily, “I'm not exactly a virgin!”
And then, embarrassment ruling him, he came out with a sentence too far. “I used to be married, for God's sake -”
It was only when he felt Nick tense that Dave realised what he'd said.
“Not - not now!” he said hastily. “Honestly, Nick, it was years ago - it was a huge mistake, I hadn't - I didn't know...”
Pleading blue eyes met grey, and Nick's own gaze softened. “Ah, Dave, you can tell me. You've never been with a man before, have you?”
“I - no,” Dave admitted eventually, feeling totally inadequate. He looked away, hating himself for his clumsiness and inability to find the right words. Humiliation burned through him, freezing his tongue into silence, and miserably he hunched his shoulders and stared at the floor.
Fuck, I'm such a failure. No wonder I'm on my own - Nick'll walk out now, of course he will. Why would he want a pathetic virgin like me? Only - please God, don't let him tear me to pieces before leaving, the way Barbara did - No, don't think about her-
Resignedly Dave allowed himself to be led across to the bed, where he slumped down and waited for Nick to walk out on him, just like everyone else...
But it seemed that Nick wasn't going anywhere - not immediately. Instead the mattress dipped as Nick sat down beside him and a strong arm wrapped itself around Dave's shoulders. Then a rough, gentle voice said,
“Dave? Do you want to talk about it?”
Turning his head Dave nuzzled into the softness of Nick's hair, breathing in the scent of his own cheap shampoo, and closed his eyes. Relaxing into Nick's warmth he wondered distantly at the strength of his desire to open up, to tell Nick all about it. About Barbara...
...About the slow torture of a foolish marriage, rushed into in a burst of frantic excitement and romantic impulse while they had both been in their final year at Oxford, and regretted almost immediately. Dave had loved her... almost desperately, almost as a kind of self-protection - see, I love a woman, I can't be gay - and of course it had all started to go wrong virtually as soon as the ink had dried on their marriage certificate, though neither of them had admitted it for far too long. For years...
Could Dave really risk telling Nick how each day, each hour had become a battlefield, filled with sneak attacks and verbal forays to inflict maximum pain and misery on one another until each had retired behind an icy, impervious wall of frozen civility and nursed their pain in private...
Dave had given up his job as Special Adviser at the Treasury, abandoned his life's ambition along with his promising career in the Conservative Party and had turned to journalism, all because Barbara hated politics and he would have done anything, tried anything back then to save his marriage, and more, save himself from the awareness of his true self. Locking away the dangerous, seductive, terrifying awareness of what he really wanted and what he really felt behind a barrier of unknowing, of deliberate ignorance, shored up by the presence of a wife and a faultlessly heterosexual life-style...
Could he really trust Nick with the pathetic history of his failed marriage and his own shame and weakness? Risk seeing disgust on those handsome features, risk Nick's rejection of a hopeless coward unable to face up to who he truly was for far too long? Nick seemed so confident and open, so sure of himself. He must be far braver than Dave... Surely he'd despise him, or worse, be kind and understanding and full of pity...
Did Dave dare tell Nick about how he'd desperately fought his own desires, refused to acknowledge them - stopped himself even looking at other men with a speculative, wanting eye, because he was married, he'd taken those vows and even if there was no love, had never really been love, he could at least be faithful... So many years of pain and self-denial, and for what?
Could Dave open up enough to tell him how the years of futility had finally come to an end? How he had come home from work one day to find his and Bar's bed - their most private place, the heart of what little relationship they had left - crumpled and in disorder, the bed sheets stained and still warm, showing all the signs of a mutually-fulfilling session of good, hard sex, of the kind that he and Barbara had simply not bothered with for a very long time...
And the worst of it had been that the man in bed - in their own bed - with Barbara had been no stranger, but his own loved, admired and envied older brother.
Oh, Bar had done it deliberately, of course. Even through his shock and raging anger, his bitter sense of betrayal and his desperate misery, Dave had understood that. Barbara had set the whole thing up with malice aforethought, to rub Dave's nose in the reality of his wife's infidelity in an effort to break the immobile pack ice of their deadlocked marriage and get them moving again, if only towards a divorce. Anything, she would have calculated in her unfeeling, efficient way, anything had to be better than the stasis they had been locked into.
For her maybe. But for him -
Unaware of what he was doing, Dave whimpered out loud, too lost in his memories to realise what he was doing. This - this was why he kept himself alone and apart, these days. Because when he was alone he could keep himself busy with writing or reading or just - getting on with the business of living. It was only when he was with other people that the door to his memory opened, spilling all of his personal baggage out to rattle around the inside of his head, bringing all his rage and pain and misery with it, his overwhelming sense of inadequacy and failure as strong now as it had been when he'd finally signed the divorce papers...
… so desperate to get it over with that he hadn't had them checked by his lawyer, hadn't felt capable of arguing the settlement or fighting Bar over who got what and where and how. He'd just signed on the dotted line, desperate to have the whole thing done with, to make the break as clean and as quick as possible - and how incredibly stupid had that been, on top of everything else?
Pathetically, monumentally stupid. Brother Alex was a bloody good at his profession - Dave had always known that, had been, ironically, proud of having such a hot-shot lawyer in the family - and between them Alex and Barbara had taken everything. Everything! House, cars, bank accounts... Bar had maxed out the cards and emptied the bank accounts before she'd gone. She'd taken them way over the overdraft limit on the main household account and stripped their joint savings to the bone. And Alex had shown her exactly how to get away with it. His oh-so-clever elder brother... Who even now that Barbara was married to him - very happily married, as Alex had never tired of pointing out when they were still speaking to each other - still made sure that Dave continued to pay, and pay, and pay. The divorce settlement obliged him to pay Barbara a monthly income for the rest of her life, regardless of her marital status.
So Dave had been forced to... retrench. Sell up. It had taken nearly everything he possessed to clear Bar's debts and start to pay off the divorce settlement. His collection of Bond first editions, his treasured artworks, his wine, his record collection - he'd always had a fondness for vinyl... He'd disposed of his bank accounts, too. Even his American Express Platinum card - and all the other credit cards deemed so necessary for the high-flying lifestyle required of the upwardly-mobile - had been disposed of, along with every one of his expensive, high-maintenance status symbols. The big house, the country cottage, the expensive cars and holidays and club memberships - all gone.
All he had left from his time living the high life of a politician-in-waiting was a few high-quality bits and pieces... One good suit carefully saved from the wreckage for job interviews; a laptop that had been top of the range when he'd bought it but was now a heavy, oversized antique, though still staggering along; and - the most invaluable item for a free-lance journalist struggling to make a name for himself - a BlackBerry and Filofax full of useful numbers and contacts in the Westminster bubble, most especially the Treasury.
And with the help of those contacts, Dave was slowly and surely paying off the huge mountain of debt that Barbara had so vindictively saddled him with, and was building a reputation in the esoteric world of economic journalism at the same time. And somehow, some way, he was paying those monthly cheques. It had become a matter of forlorn pride to him to not miss even one payment. He was meeting his obligations, and he'd carry on meeting them, and not even Alex could suggest differently!
But still it fucking hurt! The whole bloody world still hurt him, people - outsiders - strangers... they all hurt, all the fucking time... Christ, he missed his family -
No. Don't think about Mama and Pa. Not now.
But it was too late. That particular door too had opened, and suddenly he was there, standing in his mother's sunny, comfortable drawing room and staring in numb, desolate silence at his parents' - his sisters' - shocked, horrified, disgusted faces...
Why hadn't he realised that Barbara knew? That she'd probably known that he was gay even before he had? He'd fought the knowledge for so long, after all. When he'd discovered that she knew - that she'd always known, had probably guessed even before they'd married - Dave had begun to understand her hatred of him... At least a little. Because she'd believed that she could 'save' him, and had grown to hate him for her 'failure' to make him 'normal'...
And so she'd told Alex, and Alex - oh, Alex, you fifteen-carat, cunting bastard - Alex had told Ma, and Pa... And Dave wasn't going to lie about something this important to him. So he'd acknowledged it, half-defiantly, half-... what? He wasn't ashamed. Not by then. He was who he was, and proud of it. And he'd known, he'd come to understand, that he owed it to himself to be true to his nature, and that there was nothing - nothing - wrong with that! So, he preferred men. So fucking what? It was no-one's business but his own...
He'd said as much, and watched with a sense of inevitability that had not diminished the pain one iota as they had one and all turned away from him, faces turning cold and hard, the warmth draining out of them as it was draining out of him, turning him all to ice...
He'd walked out of his parents' house then, the home of his childhood, the home of his heart. He'd left that very same afternoon and he'd never returned - or been invited back. They hadn't written, hadn't phoned - had cut off all contact with him apart from the single official, impersonal letter from the family solicitors informing him that he'd been disinherited. That to his family, he no longer existed, was no longer their son.
That he was alone.
Why couldn't Alex have kept his stupid mouth shut? Dave would have told them eventually, he knew that he couldn't have lied to them forever, but - he could have picked his time, led up to it gradually, done something - anything - to bring them round, because they loved him, they still loved him, surely, they had to, under the hate and the bigotry and the - the...
Dave drew one shuddering breath - then another - then another. The dry sobs shaking him, tearing him apart, stopping the words that had been pouring from him in a disorganised, confused torrent - and that was when he realised that he had been talking. That he'd let it all out, poured it all into Nick's silent, receptive ears... and that Nick hadn't rejected him after all.
Far from it.
Nick was holding him close, murmuring soft words of comfort, rubbing one hand rhythmically up and down his back and holding on to his hand with the other, keeping hold, his grip strong and comforting and - Nick wasn't letting him go.
Nick was holding on...
“...that's it,” Nick was murmuring softly, “... let it go. Let it out. You've carried this alone for too long - let it go, now. Let me help, Dave... I'm here, I've got you - ah, love, come here...”
And Dave twisted round, buried his head in Nick's shoulder, feeling the strong arms tighten around him, and let it all out. Weeping out all the grief and loneliness and pain, everything flooding out at once until his throat was harsh, his eyes sore and swollen, and he had wept himself into an exhausted silence.
And through it all - the storms of emotion, the gasps and sobs and choked, impotent raging against fate and family and self - Nick's warm, steady hold did not waver.
For a little while, after his sobs had quieted, Dave stayed still, luxuriating in the feeling of being held, of being - cared about. He'd grieved before, he reflected. How many, many times, in the darkness of the night, alone in his little flat, he'd wept into his pillow - tears of loneliness and frustration and sheer, overwhelming misery. They'd never done any good... not like these. He felt - emptied out, floating, free at last of that black weight of grief and fury and pain. And all because of Nick...
Eventually, still sniffing a little, Dave lifted his head. “Th... thank you,” he mumbled, self-consciously.
Ducking his head, Nick sought for - and held - Dave's gaze, his own grey-blue gaze full of warmth and... love?
“You don't have to thank me,” was his response, “Really. I, I wanted to help. You've - well, you're rather important to me, you know.”
He shrugged, suddenly as self-conscious as Dave. “It's a bit sudden, I know, but, well... Somehow I always knew it would be like this, for me. Like, like lightning out of a clear sky.
“I care about you, Dave. Care a lot. Maybe even... all the way.”
Dave's smile in response was like the sun breaking through after rain, and Nick's own face relaxed into something perilously close to a fond or even loving grin.
“So - ” he said, clearing his throat and visibly trying to get the conversation back to a more mundane level, “I will, most definitely, be back tomorrow night. And the night after that, and the night after that - um, if you want me, that is.”
Dave's answer, though wordless, was completely satisfying. And as he lay back on the bed with Nick held close and content in his arms, Dave knew, finally, and beyond all doubt, that he had somehow, miraculously, found his Other.
And all because he'd discovered - or re-discovered - the courage somewhere to finally open his door to life, and living... and a sandal-wearing, bleeding-heart Liberal Democrat.
Life, Dave decided drowsily, could be very strange. But for the first time in far too long, Dave was willing to believe that life could also - very, very occasionally - be good, as well.
-FIN-