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Chapter Text

Oscar strolls into Marie’s office a half hour late to their meeting. “Good morning!”

“Oscar Wilde, awake before 11:00 a.m.,” Marie says dryly, scribbling something in her diary. “Will wonders never cease?” 

Oscar sinks into the armchair across from Marie’s desk and delicately wrinkles his nose as he sips his disgusting latte. The coffee is horribly under-roasted, and even drowning the espresso in overly sweet milk barely makes it drinkable, but the shop is just across the street from Harlequin Literary Agency, and he hadn’t had time to stop anywhere else on his way over. “The things I do for you, Marie.”

Marie reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a little paper bag. “Here, I brought you a Danish. I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.” 

“Ahh, a bribe!” Oscar snatches the bag eagerly. “You must have atrocious news for me. Is this from Le Caprice?”

“Of course it’s from Le Caprice. I have standards.” 

“Oh, you absolute treasure.” Oscar takes a huge bite of Danish and hums with delight. Marie’s right, he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday, and La Caprice makes some of the best pastry in the city. 

Marie leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “You know, as of today it’s been six years since Lost Time was published.”

“Please don’t remind me,” Oscar mumbles around his mouthful of Danish. “I’m having a moment.”

“I’m your agent,” Marie cooly replies. “It’s my job to remind you that your reputation is starting to fade.”

Oscar swallows and narrows his eyes. “My reputation is not starting to fade,” he snaps. “Lost Time was longlisted for the Booker Prize, for goodness sake.”

“That was over five years ago,” Marie counters, looking entirely unimpressed. Then again, she represents writers who have actually won the Booker Prize, as she likes to remind him.

“It’s not as though I’ve stopped writing,” Oscar says a little petulantly. 

“Yes, we all read your column in The Guardian.” Marie waves a hand dismissively. “Very smart, very charming, very witty. But I thought you were a novelist as well as a critic. If you’re really content to just write about culture and society and other people’s art, let me know and I’ll take you off our roster. You don’t need a literary agent to be a journalist.”

Oscar glowers over his Danish. “What do you want me to say? Of course I’m still a novelist? It’s an honor to be represented by you, Marie Curie, la grande dame of the British literary world, please don’t drop me from the agency?” 

Marie regards Oscar impassively until he looks away and takes a sulky bite of Danish. He really is lucky to be represented by Marie. Her taste is impeccable, and she has zero tolerance for his bullshit. “You know I have a tremendous amount of respect for you as a writer, but you haven’t pitched a new book idea in well over a year. And when I have nothing to discuss with editors, you start to fall off the radar. None of the publishers even inquire after you anymore.” 

Oscar winces as he sips his terrible coffee. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

The corner of Marie’s mouth quirks up. “Maybe, but I’m saying what you need to hear.” 

Oscar sighs heavily. “I have massive, impenetrable writer’s block. You know that better than anyone.”

“Well, you’re stagnating. For the past six years, you’ve lived in the same flat, worked in the same cafés, run in the same circles.” Marie leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Have you considered going on holiday?”

Oscar presses his lips together and idly twists the cardboard collar around his coffee cup. Marie has a point. He has a good life in London, but sometimes he feels as though he’s heard every story, attended every party, shagged every eligible man in the city (and quite a few ineligible men to boot). And criticism might come more easily than creative writing, but he misses the challenge and thrill of storytelling. “Maybe I could use a change of scenery,” he finally admits, resigned. 

“Yes, you could.” Marie smiles conspiratorially, and Oscar’s stomach drops. Oh god, she’s already planned out the next month for me. “How do you feel about the seaside?” 

“The seaside,” Oscar repeats flatly. “I hate seafood. And it’s January.”

Marie shrugs. “All the better for you to focus on your writing. You know, Eldarion and I have a cottage off the coast of Somerset, in Wynsbury. You’re welcome to borrow it for a few weeks, or however long you need.” She glances at Oscar’s coffee cup. “There’s a fabulous little café down the road where you can work. Far better coffee than that travesty across the street, and the best croissants outside of France.”

Oscar’s eyebrows fly up. That was high praise coming from Marie. “I’m listening.”  

Zolf loves the offseason in Wynsbury. Coriander has enough local patrons to do well even in the winter, but after the morning rush Zolf can sit quietly behind the till with a curry simmering on the stove and a book in his hand. It’s nice, being able to cook what he wants. In the summer, all the tourists want to eat is seafood, preferably deep fried. “It’s not even locally sourced,” he always gripes to Sasha. “And you can’t even taste the fish, what with all the breading.” 

Sasha’s stopping by for lunch today, so Zolf adds a little less chili powder to the chana masala than he prefers before transferring the curry to a soup kettle. He scrawls the special on the blackboard and goes to make himself a cup of tea, enjoying the warm, spicy scent lingering in the air and the peace and quiet of his empty café. 

Zolf has just settled in with his battered copy of When Passions Collide when the front door flies open with a crash. He jumps, spilling tea down his front and all over his book. “For goodness sake,” he hisses, wiping his hands on his apron and scrambling for a rag. 

A tall, skinny man storms inside the café. “Yes, Marie, I understand,” he says, slamming the door shut behind him. For one disorienting second, Zolf thinks the man is talking to himself before he notices his earpiece. “Why do you think I fucked off to this dreary little seaside town in the middle of January? I’m trying...” He shakes his umbrella, dripping rainwater all over the wood floor. “No, I’m not going to—” The man sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes in Zolf’s direction, as though he’s somehow in on the joke. Zolf glares back. “Look, I have to go. Give my best to Eldarion. Yes, fine. Talk later. Yes, Marie. Bye.” 

The man pulls off his earpiece and smiles at Zolf as he saunters up to the counter, his fair skin flushed from the cold. “Good morning!”

Zolf crosses his arms to cover the dark stain on his apron and glances at the till. “It’s quarter past noon.” 

“Good afternoon, then.” As the man leans against the counter, his trench coat slips open, revealing a waistcoat and tie. “It’s certainly bucketing down outside, isn’t it?”

Who wears a bloody waistcoat to get coffee? “Yeah, that happens a lot this time of year in this dreary little seaside town.” Zolf raises his eyebrows and stares at the man expectantly. “Are you gonna order anything, or did you just come round to leave a puddle on my floor?”

The man leans a little closer and beams down at Zolf. “Maybe what I want isn’t on the menu.” 

His teeth are dazzlingly white, and Zolf has to dig his fingers into his arms to stop himself from hurling the rest of his tea in the man’s smug face. “Maybe,” Zolf grits out, “you’ll find what you’re looking for at Starbucks.” 

The man laughs warmly as he combs back his long hair. “Fair enough. I’ll have a cortado and a croissant.” 

“All out of croissants.”

Zolf feels a flush of satisfaction as disappointment flickers over the man’s face. “Oh.” He scans the display of baked goods. “A slice of apple tart, then.”

Zolf punches in the order. “That’ll be four pounds, fifty pence. Name for the order?” Usually he brings orders out to customers’ tables, especially when the café is this quiet, but like hell is he delivering anything to this prick. 

“Oscar.” He looks Zolf up and down as he hands over a credit card. “Oscar Wilde.” 

“Alright, Oscar Wilde,” Zolf mumbles acidly. He charges the card and slides it across the counter along with his receipt, then scoops a slice of tart onto a plate and shoves it at Oscar without looking up. “I’ll call your name when your coffee’s ready.”    

Oscar picks up his tart and shoots Zolf a lingering glance over his shoulder as he walks to a table. Zolf stomps over to the espresso machine and starts brewing coffee thunderously. 

Fucking tourists, he thinks as he sets the machine to grind the beans and pours milk into a pitcher. If Zolf had a pound for every time an entitled Londoner tried it on with him, he could’ve closed down Coriander and retired years ago. “It’s the beard,” Azu told him once with a sympathetic smile. “And the tattoos. And those baker’s muscles from kneading all that bread.” Whatever the case may be, they always act like he should be so flattered by their attentions, little provincial baker in his little provincial café, and it’s January, he’s not supposed to have to deal with this shit for months.  

Zolf stops himself from tamping the grounds as hard as he wants—he’s a professional, after all—and pulls two shots of espresso. He steams the milk and pours it into the espresso, then whirls around and unceremoniously drops the glass on the counter. 

Oscar has settled into a table at the back of the café with a clear view of the till. He’s tapping a pen on a notebook and staring at Zolf with dark, calculating eyes, and Zolf doesn’t like the look of that at all. He narrows his eyes. “Cortado for Oscar,” he snaps, and stomps off to make himself a fresh cup of tea.

Oscar hums with pleasure as he sips his coffee. It’s an unbelievably good cortado, the rich, floral espresso blended perfectly with velvety milk, and he smiles to himself as he watches the barista storm around the kitchen like an angry teenager. It’s a good look on him—his high, broad cheekbones are sharpened by the tightness in his lips and brow, and his muscles strain against the fabric of his t-shirt as he clenches his fists. He wrenches open a closet and yanks out a mop, shooting Oscar a death stare as he stomps around the counter and begins wiping up the puddle by the door.

Oscar flashes a sunny smile, then pulls out his phone to text Marie.

the proprietor of coriander looks like he should be cast as odysseus in a modern retelling of the odyssey directed by guillermo del toro

I could see that, but I’d cast him as Prospero in an adaptation of The Tempest directed by Céline Sciamma. 

omg the ultimate sad sea dad 

brilliant reference

 i hate you

what’s his name

Zolf Smith. I promise you he’s not interested. 

i know

he’s perfect

this is a set-up

Of course it’s a set-up. Are you already pining away over Mr Smith?

i’m not going to dignify that with a response

As long as it gets you writing, that’s all the response I need.

Oscar imagines Marie’s tight, pleased little smirk and shakes his head fondly. She really does know him far too well. Oscar adores the thrill of being rejected by men he wants, and few things inspire him more. Maybe it’s the challenge; maybe it’s the novelty. Either way, he’s defenseless when it comes to handsome, scowling men who won’t give him the time of day. Or rather, handsome, scowling men who make snide comments about the time of day, then tell him to fuck off to Starbucks. 

Oscar opens up Yelp and scrolls furiously through the reviews of Coriander, hunting for any mention of Zolf.

I’m from Boston, so I’ve seen some pretty rough customer service in my time, but the bearded asshole behind the counter at Coriander is in a league all by himself. I ordered a hazelnut latte and he told me if I wanted to “drink that shit” I could go to Starbucks. Fuck off, if there was a Starbucks in this one-horse town, Coriander would be out of business, guaranteed.

Zolf is an incredible barista and an even better baker, but customer service is not his strong suit. That said, if you treat him with respect you’ll be rewarded with some of the best coffee and pastry of your life. And the specials are always phenomenally delicious!

Everyone on here talks about the croissants, but they’re always sold out before 11. When I asked the barista why they don’t just bake more, he actually said, and I quote, “I’ll bake an extra croissant tomorrow and shove it up your arse.” What a prick! 

Hot but rude.

Oscar snorts. “Hot but rude,” indeed. He looks up to see Zolf settled behind the counter, glowering into a book. Who are you, Zolf Smith? Oscar ties his hair back, uncaps his pen, and starts scribbling in his notebook.

Zolf Smith 

Drumming up fictionalised character profiles based on interesting strangers is one of Oscar’s favourite writing warm-ups, but he hasn’t felt the urge to write one in over a year. As much as he hates conceding anything to Marie, getting out of London was a terrific idea.

Runs a café (apparently on his own) in Wynsbury, a quaint little seaside town. Fantastic barista and—

Oh, right, he ordered a slice of apple tart. He takes a bite and moans softly. This is going to be a serious problem, he thinks, savouring the bright, caramelized apples, the barest hint of vanilla sweetening the buttery shortcrust.  

— spectacular baker (if his apple tart is this good I can only imagine the existential glory of his croissants). Specialises in pastry and bread—seems to have an affinity for aesthetically simple but technically difficult baking.

Looks too young to have white hair, but still, skin is quite weathered, more than one would expect from a life spent in a kitchen. Previous career where he worked outdoors? 

Oscar has a vision of Zolf on the bow of a full-rigged ship, wearing a duster made from the same brown canvas of his apron. Oh, that’s very good.  

Former sailor. Why he lives near the ocean. Used to working long hours alone, which is why he hates customer service and runs the café by himself. 

Self-taught baker/cook. 

Oscar digs his glasses out of his bag and shoves them on his nose so he can read the title of Zolf’s book. 

When Passions Collide by Harrison Campbell. 

Oh. Oscar stifles a delighted laugh. He fucking loves Harrison Campbell, who invokes romance tropes so fluently that Oscar can think of few contemporary writers with more campy value. But Oscar doesn’t have a beard long enough to braid, two arms covered in black linework, and a reputation for mind-blowing croissants and terrible customer service. 

Reads Harrison Campbell (in particular, his early work). Frankly seems “out of character”—how/why would campy romance novels speak to a grumpy dwarven café owner who was once a sailor? What makes Campbell’s particular, almost-meta brand of romance appealing?    

Escapism and familiarity, guaranteed happy ending—way of coping with past trauma? E.g., shipwreck that wiped out his entire crew. Zolf has survivor’s guilt. 

Intimacy, connection—Lost and/or rejected by his family? E.g., didn’t want to join the family business, wanted to leave home and see the world (why he became a sailor).

Oscar taps his pen against his lips and sneaks another glance at Zolf. As Zolf goes to drink his tea, he catches Oscar staring and snaps his book shut. “Can I help you?”

“Well, I’m sure I could think of something, though I’m all set with coffee for now.” Oscar grins broadly as Zolf groans and rolls his eyes. 

“Great,” Zolf mutters, already turning back to When Passion Collide. “Just bloody fantastic.”

Oscar sips his delicious coffee and eats his delicious tart and continues sketching out Zolf’s profile. It’s the best morning he’s had in ages. 

It’s the worst afternoon Zolf has had in ages.

Most tourists drink their coffee and leave. It’s their one redeeming quality. But Oscar evidently has nowhere better to be. He’s settled in with a notebook and a pen, and while he seems completely absorbed in whatever he’s writing, Zolf can’t read his book without feeling like he’s being watched. 

Eventually Zolf gives up and decides to make a loaf of bread, banging the bowls and ingredients on the counter as loudly as he can. Oscar tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and continues writing, apparently unbothered. 

Zolf growls as he starts to knead the dough by hand. It’s a strong, stiff sourdough recipe, one that needs at least ten minutes of kneading, and Zolf feels some of the tension start to drain from his shoulders as he works the dough. But he’s interrupted by a customer after a few minutes—a local, thank god for small miracles—and the sight of Oscar with his stupid notebook and his stupid glasses and his stupid smug face makes him tense up all over again. 

Sasha strides into the café just as Zolf shoves the dough into the proofing cabinet and slams it shut. She lets herself behind the counter and pulls up a chair, peering intently at his face. “Alright, Zolf?” 

Zolf picks up a ladle and starts spooning chana masala into two bowls. “Get a load of this prick,” he mutters, gesturing at Oscar with his chin.  

Sasha glances at Oscar, her sharp eyes lingering on his pen. “That’s a decent pen, that is.” 

Zolf shoots Sasha a confused look as he hands her the chana masala and sets down a plate of naan. “What?” 

“His pen.” Sasha accepts the bowl and starts eating. “It’s a cerulean Martin Epiphany with a gold-filled cap. Martin only made cerulean fountain pens for six years, between 1948 and 1954. Depending on the condition of the nib I could probably get 350 quid for it, give or take.” Sasha shrugs and swallows a mouthful of curry. “He seems alright.”

Zolf sits down beside Sasha with an exasperated huff. “Why, because he has good taste in pens?” 

Sasha shrugs again. “It’s a very cool pen, mate.” 

“Well, he’s an arse.” 

Sasha tears off a piece of naan and stuffs it in her mouth. “What, did he hit on you or something?” 

“Yeah, he hit on me or something.” Zolf takes a bite of his curry and adds a dash of chili powder. “Classic entitled posh city boy. Dunno how you deal with that shite all the time.”

“It’s where the money is. And they don’t hit on me. Well, this one guy did, but that’s only cuz he thought I was a bloke. Azu straightened him right out.” Sasha looks at Zolf thoughtfully. “You want me to nick his pen for you?” 

Zolf laughs. “Maybe.”

Sasha nods solemnly. “Yeah, alright, just let me know.” Her eyes flick up. “Incoming.”

Zolf looks over to see Oscar heading towards the counter and bites down on a groan as he sets his lunch aside. “Something else for you?”

Oscar smiles, slow and sly. “What are you offering?”

Zolf crosses his arms and glares at him for a long moment. “Coffee.”

“Then I’ll have a macchiato, please.” Oscar drapes himself against the counter. “Show me the perfect cortado wasn’t an accident.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Zolf mutters. He charges Oscar’s card and flings it across the table. 

After he grinds the beans, Zolf hears Sasha set down her bowl and walk over to the till. “That’s a nice pen you got there, mate.” 

“Thank you,” Oscar replies, sounding genuinely pleased. “How lovely to meet someone with decent taste.”

Sasha snorts. “You a collector?”

“Not per se, but I’m a writer who appreciates beautiful things.” 

“Well, I got a Waterman 0553 1/2 you might like,” Sasha says. “From 1925 or thereabouts, original 14 carat gold nib, 18 carat gold-filled trefoil overlay, mint condition.”

“Sorry?” Oscar asks, sounding confused. 

Zolf plunks the macchiato on the counter. “She means at her antique store next door.”

Sasha nods stiffly, then abruptly picks up her bowl and slinks off to help herself to some more chana masala. 

Oscar picks up his coffee and takes a sip, regarding Sasha curiously. “Is she your partner?” he asks Zolf.

Sasha splutters as she chokes on a mouthful of curry. Zolf goes to fetch her a glass of water, glaring at Oscar over his shoulder. “Pretty sure that’s none of your damn business.” 

Oscar smirks as he turns and walks back to his table. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“I swear to god,” Zolf calls after him, “if you keep this up, I’m gonna drown you in my mop bucket.” 

Oscar looks back at Zolf and winks. “Oh, I always keep it up.”

Zolf rubs his forehead. “Idiot,” he growls.

“Well,” Sasha says, clearing her throat. “Let me know if you want me to nick that pen.”

“Yeah, might do.” Zolf shoots Oscar one last dirty look, then goes to brew Sasha her afternoon espresso.  

Oscar is back at the cottage microwaving a frozen dinner when he gets a call from Marie. He answers the phone, holding it to his ear with his shoulder as he peels the cover off the tray of food. “I’ll have you know that I spent the day plotting out fanfiction about my barista.” 

“Fabulous start,” Marie replies smoothly. 

“Glad you agree. After all, Lost Time was essentially RPF about Hamid.” After meeting lovely, kind, irredeemably straight Hamid at a writers’ workshop, Oscar had been obsessed with him for ages. Now they were just good friends, even though Oscar occasionally struggled with jealousy over Hamid’s commercial success.

“Oh, Hamid,” Marie says somewhat dismissively. “How is he these days? You know I don’t keep tabs on popular SFF writers.” 

“He’s refused to confirm this for me, but I’ve heard rumours that his Flying into Fire series was optioned by HBO,” Oscar says, trying and failing to stop a twinge of envy from creeping into his voice.  

“Different path, Oscar. Hamid isn’t getting long listed for the Booker prize anytime soon.” There’s a soft creak as Marie leans back in her chair. “So tell me about the backstory you’ve conjured up for Zolf.”

Oscar sits down at the kitchen table and eats a spoonful of semi-frozen mashed potatoes as he flips open his notebook. “He wasn’t always a baker, and he’s not originally from Wynsbury. He never expected to end up here, but he’s fought hard to be the architect of his own life and now he can’t imagine himself anywhere else. I mean, I watched him knead some bread dough this afternoon, and it was mesmerising.”

“Alright, that’s a bit nebulous,” Marie says. “Give me specifics.”

“I was getting there! He comes from a family of miners—”

“Why, just because he’s a dwarf?” Marie interjects.

“For goodness sake, Marie, let me get out a full sentence. He hated working underground and dreamed of being a sailor, so he ran away and joined the crew of a ship.”

Marie groans. “This sounds an awful lot like a bodice-ripper. Let me guess—at some point he saves a skinny Irishman from a pirate ship.”  

Oscar grins. “You know what? Now that you mention it, maybe he should be a pirate who takes an Irishman hostage and ties him up and—” 

“Alright, fine, so Zolf is a pirate,” Marie says, sounding bored. “And…?”

“There’s a shipwreck. Zolf is the only member of the crew who survives, and he has an existential crisis.”

“I do enjoy a good existential crisis,” Marie concedes. “But let’s backtrack for a moment. What do you want to know about Zolf?

Oscar takes a bite of cold, grayish meat as he tries to gather his thoughts. “Why does he make such good coffee even though he only drinks tea? Where did he learn how to bake? Why does he like to bake? Do his tattoos have any significance?” He sits up, suddenly remembering Zolf’s book. “Oh! He was reading When Passions Collide!”

Marie sighs, sounding exasperated. “That’s a Harrison Campbell novel, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s the Harrison Campbell novel!” Oscar cries. “Personally, I prefer With the Passion of the Sun, but I acknowledge and respect that in many ways When Passions Collide is a more perfect book. So why is this tough, angry baker reading the Platonic ideal of a contemporary pulp romance novel?”

Marie scoffs. “You should consider the possibility that he’s only angry when he’s dealing with you. But let’s put a pin in that for now. Why do you want to know the answers to these questions?”

“I mean, Zolf just was not who I expected to see behind the counter of a café in this little seaside town. And that’s probably more a reflection of my expectation bias than anything else, but...” 

Oscar flips to a blank page in his notebook and writes cognitive dissonance. Where would he expect to see Zolf? He shuts his eyes and has a vision of Zolf leaning against a brick wall, smoking a cigarette. Running his eyes down the length of Oscar’s body before taking him by the hand and leading him down an alley. “He reminds me a little of the men I used to pick up at this dive bar in Dublin.”

There’s a pause on the line, and Oscar can hear the soft tap of a keyboard. Marie is an obsessive notetaker, and Oscar will probably get a word-for-word transcript of this conversation after the call ends. “During your eyeliner days.”

Oscar laughs. “Yes, back when I was shagging anyone who looked at me so I wouldn’t have to go home that night.” Is that what he wanted to write about? He scribbles down bildungsroman. “It was an interesting crowd, because during the day these men worked all over the city in countless different industries, but at night they converged at this bar. And everyone I met had a story. Especially with some of the older men, there was a defensiveness there, a toughness that came from surviving in a world that hadn’t been kind to them.”

“And you want to tell those stories?”

“I don’t know.” Oscar blows the air out of his cheeks. “But there’s something about seeing someone like Zolf, this muscular, tattooed, bearded, intense dwarf, make a perfect cortado and then settle in to read a properly maudlin romance novel. This idea that some people are so much more than meets the eye.”

“I think I see where you’re going, but make the connection to your misspent youth.”

Oscar taps his pen against his lip. “It’s something about finding the courage to live your life honestly. The intersection of trauma and liberation and self-expression.” What would capture that feeling? Drag, he writes in his notebook. “I should let you go. I’ve got some brainstorming to do.”

“Good,” Marie replies. “Just don’t forget to eat.”

“I won’t.” Oscar grimaces at his disgusting dinner as he pulls it closer and prods at the food with his fork. “Talk soon.” He hangs up the phone, jams a forkful of cold meat into his mouth, and starts freewriting.

Bildungsroman. How does someone find the courage to walk their own path?

English renaissance—when young men played female roles in theatre. Young boy (16?) runs away from home to become an actor, dreams of playing Miranda in The Tempest (do you just want to beg Zolf to allay the wild waters in this roar?) or Viola in Twelfth Night (is this played out?) or Ophelia in Hamlet (though I hate Hamlet …).

Another young boy has a job he hates that he inherited from his father—miner? Should be slightly older (maybe 18), so he’s had enough experience to feel resigned. Dreams of becoming something practical but still elevated—a doctor? 

Consider a more modern premise. Two young men in London. One from a middle class family, studied music, dropped out of uni to focus on his career as a drag queen. The other is from a working class family that wanted him to work in the mines with his father and brother, left home to study medicine, works as a bartender at night to support himself and so he can send money home. 

Different kinds of bravery, different challenges, but their paths converge at a gay club.

Oscar shuts his eyes and thinks of Zolf glaring at him from behind a bar, his eyes rimmed with smudged eyeliner. No, you can do better than that. He imagines Zolf watching a tall, willowy drag queen with an impossibly thin waist. She looks back at him for a moment, her face cold and flawless under the flashing blue lights, and a shadow flickers across Zolf’s face as she turns away and disappears into the crowd. 

There you go. Oscar smiles to himself as he continues writing. Alright, Zolf Smith. Let’s make you fall in love.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Oscar stops by a bookshop two doors down from Coriander. When he steps inside, an enormous gold cat jumps down from some unseen height, landing directly in front of him. 

“Ohmygod,” Oscar gasps, clutching his chest. 

“Sorry, sorry!” A tall, muscular orc strolls over to Oscar, waving her hands apologetically. She’s wearing a pink shawl so bright that it practically glows. “Topaz is extremely friendly, I promise!”

“Alright.” Oscar eyes Topaz warily as she arches her back. 

“Welcome to Love Letters!” the orc exclaims. “I’m Azu, and I would be delighted to help you find whatever it is you are looking for.”

“Hello,” Oscar says, a little taken aback by Azu’s enthusiasm. He takes a tentative step forward, keeping one eye on the cat as he looks around. 

The bookshop is bright and airy, with blush-coloured walls and velvet armchairs in various shades of eye-smarting pink. Topaz darts into the next room, and as Oscar watches her skitter away, he notices that someone has knocked down the wall between the bookshop and the neighboring unit, which looks to be as dark and foreboding as Love Letters is warm and inviting. That awkward woman’s antique store, he realises. 

Oscar turns to Azu and gives her his most charming smile. “Do you know the man who owns Coriander?”

Azu beams at Oscar. “Zolf is one of my greatest friends!”

Interesting. Azu seems to be about as different from Zolf as one could possibly imagine. Another piece of the puzzle to analyse. “Do you happen to know his favourite Harrison Campbell novel?”

Azu shoots Oscar a canny look and crosses her arms, suddenly looking far less welcoming. “Are you trying to get to know him?”

“Yes,” Oscar says carefully. “I’ve never met anyone quite like him before.”

Azu sizes him up for another moment before turning and striding purposefully down an aisle. “I would think,” she says, not unkindly, “that if you really wanted to get to know Zolf, you would ask him about his favourite books yourself.”

Oscar trots to catch up. “Well, he’s awfully enigmatic, isn’t he?”

“Zolf does not make new friends easily, but you are wise to befriend him through Harrison Campbell novels. They are one of the few things he enjoys sharing with others.” Azu gestures at a shelf filled with Campbells. “Is there anything else I can help you find?”

Oscar selects With the Passion of the Sun and The Heart Beats Faster. “I think this’ll do for now,” he says, smiling up at Azu. “But I’m sure I’ll be back soon.”

Jennifer has just invited Richard up to her flat for the first time when a smug, musical voice interrupts Zolf’s reverie. 

“I love Harrison Campbell.” 

Zolf sets down When Passions Collide with a heavy sigh and scowls suspiciously up at Oscar. He’s so bloody tall. “Really.” 

Oscar is being sarcastic, he’s sure of it. Plenty of idiots have mocked Zolf for his taste in literature, and while he’s too old to be arsed about elitists anymore, it’s unimaginably annoying. 

“Yes, really.” Oscar smiles that obnoxiously bright smile. “I think he’s the finest popular romance novelist of his generation.”

“You don’t say.” Zolf crosses his arms, entirely unimpressed. 

“Campbell understands the modern romance genre better than anyone else I’ve ever read.” Oscar leans his elbows against the counter. “I know a lot of people say his books are formulaic, but I think that disregards the complex psychology of romance and the ways in which a truly masterful romance writer like Harrison Campbell can strategically deploy tropes and narrative conventions to evoke an emotional response in the reader.” 

Zolf scoffs. What a steaming pile of horse shit. “Did you practice that speech on your way over here?”

Oscar chuckles, looking chuffed with himself. “No. It’s something I’ve thought about quite a lot.”

Zolf twists his mouth wryly. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Oscar lowers his long lashes. “You can ask me anything you want.”

“Does this whole aloof, cleverer-than-me thing you've got going on actually work on anyone back in London?” 

Oscar leans close enough that Zolf can smell the warm, floral scent of his cologne. “Yes,” he murmurs. “But in London, my reputation precedes me.”  

“For what, being an arsehole?”

“Among other skills.” Oscar’s eyes drop to Zolf’s lips. “I’m extremely versatile.” 

Zolf shoves himself back from the counter. “For goodness sake,” he snaps. “What is wrong with you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Oscar steps back and gives Zolf a lazy smile.

“Not in the slightest.” Zolf scrubs his face with his hands. “Look, can you just—what d’you want?” Oscar opens his mouth to respond, and Zolf quickly raises a hand to stop him, realising his mistake. “No! Don’t answer that. What can I—What would you—” Zolf takes a deep breath. “What food and/or drinks would you like to order?”  

“I’ll have a cortado and a croissant.”

Zolf smirks. “All out of croissants.” 

Oscar sighs wistfully as he surveys the picked-over pastries. “A cream horn, then.” He hands Zolf his card. “I can’t resist—”

“Don’t. Finish. That. Sentence,” Zolf growls as he rings him up. “I’ll call your name when your order’s ready.”  

For three weeks, Oscar comes to Coriander every day it’s open, always after 11:00 a.m. and always dressed in a waistcoat, tie, and jeans. 

Every day he swaggers up to the counter and makes some inane comment about Harrison Campbell. 

“The Heart Beats Faster is Campbell’s most underrated novel,” Oscar declares. “I’ve always believed that the literary merit of a given work should be judged by the intensity of its emotional impact on the reader, and erotic romance evokes a visceral response unlike any other. And I have read few passages as profoundly affecting as the scene when Sienna and Renee get caught in the rain and take shelter in the greenhouse.”

The greenhouse scene is one of Zolf’s favourite scenes of all time, but like hell is he going to engage in this pretentious nonsense. “I’ve always thought that Love in the Time of Hardship is Campbell’s most underrated book.”

“Really?” Oscar leans forward, smiling eagerly. “I’ve never read Love in the Time of Hardship.”

“Your loss.” Zolf crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Oscar then orders a cortado and a croissant—even though they’re always long gone by the time he shows up—before settling for whatever pastries are left. 

He then swaggers off to his table at the back of the café, and if Zolf notices the way Oscar’s jeans cup the rounded curve of his arse, that’s between him and the god he no longer believes in.  

While Oscar drinks his cortado, he’ll either read a book or idly page through his notebook, making occasional notes. He’ll order a macchiato an hour later, and then start manically writing—always in longhand, always with that bright blue fountain pen—for at least two hours, often three. He’ll then use the bathroom, order another cortado, and write at a more measured pace, frequently flipping back and forth between different sections of his notebook, until the shop closes at 4:00 p.m. 

Besides a single pastry at the beginning of the day, Oscar never orders any food.

It shouldn’t bother Zolf, but Oscar’s ordering habits drive him absolutely mad. “How on earth can someone drink that much coffee on an empty stomach?” he asks Azu as he hands her a plate of masoor dal and a stack of chapatis.

“Some artists get so drawn into their work that they forget to eat.” Azu’s eyes are far too soft and sympathetic for Zolf’s liking. “Are you worried about him?”

“Not in the slightest.” Zolf ladles dal onto a plate for himself. “You want some garlic pickle?”

“Oooh, do you really need to ask?” Azu tears off a piece of chapati and scoops up a healthy dollop of dal before popping it into her mouth. She hums appreciatively. “Brilliant. Delicious. Perfect. Every time, Zolf, by all the gods, I am so grateful to have you in my life.”

Zolf grins at Azu. “You flatterer,” he says, grabbing the garlic pickle from the fridge. He pops the lid off the jar and drops in a spoon. “Help yourself.”

Azu eagerly spoons some onto her plate. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“I don’t give a shit if he wants to be self-destructive.” Zolf grabs a chapati and glowers at Oscar. A few wisps of hair have escaped his haphazard bun, and he keeps absentmindedly tucking his hair behind his ears only for it to fall into his eyes a few seconds later. Fix your stupid hair, you idiot. “I just want to know how it’s humanly possible to drink five shots of espresso after eating nothing more than a bloody scone.”

Azu chuckles. “To be fair, you don’t drink coffee.” 

“Yeah, because I don’t like being physically dependent on a psychoactive drug!”  

“Well, I’m sure he has a far higher caffeine tolerance than you,” Azu replies, patting his arm soothingly.

“No, that’s not what—I’m not trying to—” Zolf huffs. “Nevermind. How are things at the shop?”

“Good.” Azu looks at him warmly, idly shredding a chapati. “Oscar came in and bought a copy of Love in the Time of Hardship this morning.”

“Good for him.” Zolf shovels dal into his mouth. 

Azu raises an eyebrow. “Would it really be such a bad thing if you made a new friend, Zolf?” 

“I have no interest in being friends with some prick who thinks he’s allowed to be absolutely insufferable just because he has a really nice bum.”

“What’s this about my bum?” 

Fuck. Zolf swallows his dal and looks up to see Oscar beaming down at him, looking unimaginably smug. His face burns as he stands up and smooths his hands on his apron. “Uhm. Macchiato?”

Oscar leans his elbows against the counter, still grinning. “Hi, Azu.”

“Hello, Oscar!” Azu looks like all her birthdays have come at once. “I was just saying—”

“Nothing!” Zolf interjects, glaring at Azu. “Absolutely nothing at all! I’m just gonna—” He gestures helplessly at the espresso machine and goes off to make a macchiato.

Zolf has six aprons, one for each day of the week that Coriander is open. All of them are made of the same light brown canvas, but each has its own constellation of stains and tears, and Oscar has come to know each of them. Today Zolf is wearing the apron with the loose hem and the bright yellow stain on the pocket. 

Every day Zolf reads a Harrison Campbell novel. He’s a slow reader, and it usually takes him three or four days to finish a book, depending on how busy the café gets. 

Every day Oscar makes a comment about the title Zolf is reading, and while Zolf is still unwilling to engage in a proper conversation, he has very, very gradually gotten less snappish. The other day he even recommended Love in a Time of Hardship, which, as it turns out, is criminally underrated. 

Every day either Azu or Sasha comes by Coriander for lunch. Zolf almost always lets them drive the conversation. As a result, Sasha spends an awful lot of time rattling off the specs and value of various bizarre antiques, while Azu often gushes about the latest SFF title she’s reading.  

Some days Zolf’s face gets stormy and tense, and he makes bread. As Zolf kneads the dough with his strong hands, his face softens, his shoulders relax, and Oscar falls a little bit in love.

To make matters even better, Coriander is an incredible workplace. Zolf doesn’t play music, and the café is busy enough to have ambient noise but not so crowded as to be distracting. And his preferred table (with a clear view of Zolf, of course) is always available. All told, Oscar has gotten more writing done in the past three weeks than he has in the past three years.

Oscar is editing his outline, adding in a few more scenes to flesh out the characters’ backstories, when a clatter makes him jolt upright. He looks up to see a steaming plate of curry and chapatis on the table in front of him. Zolf is shuffling away, his hands jammed in his pockets. 

“Sorry, I didn’t order any food,” Oscar calls after Zolf, eying the curry. It smells delicious, and Oscar’s stomach growls as he finally realises he hasn’t eaten anything since the morning. 

Zolf turns around, rubbing the back of his neck and looking extremely uncomfortable. “I know. I just, uhm, I always make too much and, uhm, otherwise it’ll just get chucked in the bin, so. Yeah.” He ducks his head and starts walking back towards the counter. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want it.”

“No, of course I’ll eat your food.” Oscar stands up and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. “Just let me pay you for it.”

Zolf waves a hand as he lets himself behind the counter, his face beet red. “No, really, don’t, just, it’s fine.” 

Oscar bites his lip to stifle a laugh as he sits back down. A bizarre development, but a very good one. “Well, thank you.” He pulls the plate towards him and tears off a piece of chapati, scooping up a dollop of curry. “Are these lentils?”

“Yeah, uhm, masoor dal,” Zolf mumbles, burying his nose in The Heart Beats Faster. 

Oscar pops the chapati in his mouth. The dal is incredible, spicy and comforting, and as he swallows he can feel the chili and garlic and ginger warming his belly. “Zolf, this is amazing,” he gushes, tearing off another piece of chapati.

“Good,” Zolf says gruffly. “Glad you like it.”

“I love it.” Oscar stuffs more dal into his mouth and hazards a glance at Zolf. He’s still pretending to read, but the faintest smile plays on the corners of his lips. 

Oscar grins, remembering what Azu said about Zolf. “You are wise to befriend him through Harrison Campbell novels. They are one of the few things he enjoys sharing with others.” 

So presumably there are a few other things that Zolf enjoys sharing. Food is apparently one of them. Oscar thinks of Zolf chatting with Sasha about antiques and Azu about SFF, then looks down at his notebook. Maybe people’s passions are another.

Chapter Text

“Good morning.”

Zolf sets down The Heart Beat Faster and smiles tersely at Oscar, steeling himself for another pretentious comment. “Hello.”

Oscar is clutching a sheaf of paper, looking surprisingly shy. “I wanted to thank you for the food yesterday.” 

“Oh, for goodness sake, don’t make it weird,” Zolf sighs, rubbing his brow. “I was using you as a human rubbish bin.” 

“Well, it was one of the best things I’ve ever had shoved down my throat,” Oscar says with a smile. “And believe me, I’ve had plenty of—”

Zolf grimaces and holds up a hand to stop him. “Alright, alright. I get it. I’m glad you liked it.”

“Well, I wanted to give this to you as a way to thank you.” Oscar hands him the sheaf of paper. “It’s a draft of the first chapter of my novel. You don’t have to read it, but I’d like you to. And I’d love to hear any thoughts you might have. If you’re willing to give them, of course.”

Zolf takes the manuscript, looking up at Oscar incredulously. “Sorry?”

“I’m a writer. I wrote Lost Time, if you’ve ever heard of it…?” Zolf blinks up at Oscar blankly, and Oscar sighs and waves a hand. “Anyways, I’m writing my next novel, and it’s sort of a romance—well, I’m not quite sure of the ending just yet, so I should say it’s a love story. But you clearly have a strong appreciation of romance, and as such I think your perspective would be incredibly valuable.”

“Uhm.” Zolf glances at the title. Bad Sons by Oscar Wilde. “What’s it about?” 

“Well, there’s this line in The Tempest, ‘Good women sometimes give birth to bad sons.’ It’s sort of inspired by that. And other things.” Oscar inexplicably flushes, then presses on. “Basically, I wanted to write a bildungsroman about what happens when two people subvert the expectations placed on them, but in very different ways. And the particular confluence of diverse experiences within the queer community, how all these individuals from different backgrounds converge in queer spaces, then walk divergent paths in the ‘real world.’”

“Okay,” Zolf says slowly. “But what’s it actually about?”

“You mean the plot?” Zolf raises his eyebrows and nods, and Oscar purses his lips. “It’s about two young men in London who fall in love. The narrator is from a working class family that wanted him to work on the family farm. Or another family business, I haven’t decided yet. Anyways, he left home to attend uni against his family’s wishes, so he works as a bartender at a drag club to support himself. He falls in love with a drag queen from a middle class family who was studying music, but dropped out to focus on his drag career.”

“Huh.” Zolf looks curiously at the manuscript. “Yeah, alright. I’ll take a look.”

“Really?” Oscar’s smile lights up his face, and Zolf feels the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably.

“Yeah, sure,” Zolf says, rubbing his neck. “I might hold off until you leave, though. Feels a bit weird to read it in front of you, if I’m honest.” 

Oscar nods. “Of course, whatever you prefer.”

“Well.” Zolf sets the manuscript down, still a bit baffled by this bizarre turn of events. “I’m, uh, I’m all out of croissants, but I can make you a cortado.”

Zolf feels slightly off for the rest of the day.

“Alright, Zolf?” Sasha asks, her mouth full of yukgaejang. Her face is bright red, and Zolf belatedly realises he added the full amount of chili flakes to the soup. She swipes at the sweat beading on her upper lip and doggedly crams another spoonful of soup into her mouth, too proud to admit defeat. 

“Yeah, just, uhm, distracted,” Zolf replies. He gets up and pours her a glass of milk. “How are things at the shop?”

“Cheers,” Sasha says, accepting the glass and chugging it down. “Sold this hideous Knoll credenza this morning. Rosewood, Calcutta marble, original chrome hardware, from 1961. I can’t stand that mid-century modern rubbish, but this wanker in Chelsea took it off my hands for 8,550 quid. Some halfling writer Azu won’t stop going on about.”

Zolf refills her glass. “Something something al-Tahan?” 

Sasha glowers at her soup. “Yeah, or whatever.” 

“Sasha,” Zolf says carefully, “you’re not jealous, are you?”

“No,” Sasha grumbles. She looks up and points at Oscar with her spoon. “So, is he distracting you with his bum or something?”

Zolf feels his face burn. “Sasha!” 

“What? Azu said—”

“God.” Zolf presses a hand to his brow. “Azu doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“I mean, you’re always staring,” Sasha says. “Thought you might be into him now.” 

“Keep your bloody voice down,” Zolf hisses. “I do not stare at him. And no! Absolutely not! 

Sasha shrugs. “Alright.” 

“How could you find someone that pretentious attractive?” Zolf says, furiously stirring his soup. 

Sasha blows her fringe out of her eyes and glances up. “Incoming.” 

Fucking Oscar, Zolf thinks, setting his lunch aside. 

“Hi, Sasha,” Oscar says, leaning against the counter. “Hamid might be getting in touch about buying a few more pieces from you. He’s really excited about that silly credenza.” He holds up a hand apologetically. “No offense to the dealer, of course. I just can’t stand mid-century modern aesthetics, personally. So gauche.”

“I know, right?” Sasha exclaims, outraged. “They’re not even proper antiques!”

Zolf smiles in spite of himself. “Macchiato?” he asks.

Oscar smiles back. “That would be lovely.” 

Zolf listens to Oscar banter with his closest friend about this poor Hamid fellow as he works the espresso machine, and when he hands Oscar his coffee, he has the absurd urge to ask him to join them behind the counter. “Uhm,” Zolf says, staring up at Oscar’s stupidly handsome face. “That’s £2.50.” 

“Everything alright, Zolf? You’re looking rather flushed.” Oscar smirks as he hands over his card. “It suits you.”

It’s almost comforting when Zolf feels that familiar irritation slip back into place. “I’m fine,” Zolf growls, charging Oscar’s card and chucking it at him. “Just a bit hot.”

“Yes,” Oscar says as he walks back to his table, swaying his hips. “You certainly are.” 

Sasha snorts into her yukgaejang, and Zolf sits back down with a huff. “I’m not sorry I made the soup proper spicy,” he snaps at Sasha, turning back to his lunch.

After Zolf closes Coriander and finishes preparations for the following day, he heads up to his flat over the café with Oscar’s manuscript tucked under his arm. Part of him still can’t believe he’s actually doing this, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. He settles into his armchair and starts to read. 

“Vodka soda, please.” 

I looked up from drying glasses to see a drag queen with a sharp, exquisite face draped against the bar. She towered over me, but she was slight with it, fine-boned and willowy. A peacock feather boa frothed around her narrow shoulders, perfectly complementing her fair skin and auburn hair.

I smiled as I mixed her drink. “You’re the new girl.” 

She carefully brushed her hair away from her face with a gloved hand, and a beaded blue corset peeked out from beneath the mass of peacock feathers. “And you’re the bartender all the girls want to fuck.”

I laughed and shook my head. “You’re thinking of Hamid, mate,” I said, sliding her drink onto a coaster and gesturing at the slender halfling chatting up another drag queen at the end of the bar. “I’m Isaac. Welcome to Gragg’s Cabaret.”

“Isaac,” she repeated slowly, as though she were savouring the taste of my name on her tongue. She took a long drink, regarding me with keen brown eyes. “I’m Shane.”

“Just Shane?” 

“Ms. MacKenna if you’re nasty,” Shane replied with a wink. “But in drag, I’m just Shane. Like Cher, or Madonna, or Prince.”

“I love that.” I swept my eyes over her dramatic winged eyeliner, her merlot lips, the spit curls swirling across her forehead. “You look incredible.”

Shane flashed a wide, brilliant smile that creased her cheeks and crinkled her eyes. “It’s the brand, darling.” 

“Bold of you to wear peacock feathers on stage for your first show,” I said with a grin. “Isn’t that supposed to be bad luck?”

Shane adjusted her boa so it slipped further down her arms and turned her face to catch the light, looking for all the world like a pin-up illustration come to life. “When you look like this, you don’t need luck.” 

“Fair enough,” I said, admiring the long line of her neck. “What’s your act?” 

“I do a little bit of everything.” She delicately picked a bit of fluff off her gloves and flicked it away. “But for the most part, I’m a burlesque performer and a singer.” 

I leaned my elbows against the bar. “Yeah, I reckon I’d pay to see that,” I teased, hoping to elicit that lovely smile again.

Shane smirked as she looked at me through her heavy lashes. “I’d let you watch for free.”

I felt my face warm and fussed with the glasses to give myself something to do. “I bet you say that to all the boys.” 

“Of course I do. I’m a professional.” Shane rested her chin on her hand. “But if you ever want a private show, I’ll let you do more than watch.”

“Uhm.” I swallowed, looking everywhere but her perfect face. I was used to flirting with drag queens—they all knew to chat up the bartenders for free drinks, and we were happy to oblige—but Shane was something else altogether. “Yeah. I’d, uhm, I’d like that.” I busied my hands mixing her a second vodka soda. “For luck. Not that you need it.”

Shane accepted the drink with a grin. “Cheers, Isaac.”  

“I’ve, uhm, I’ve gotta get back to work,” I said, waving vaguely at the patrons queuing at the bar. “But I’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Shane toyed with the straw in her drink as she turned to walk away. “Enjoy the show,” she said over her shoulder. 

---

After the show ended, I was finishing cleaning up the club when Shane emerged from backstage in worn jeans and a t-shirt, his face scrubbed clean. He leaned against the bar, all long limbs and dark curls, and struck a dramatic pose. “Still think I look incredible?”

I grinned as I put away my bar mop and walked over to him. “Still think I’m the bartender all the girls want to fuck?” I said, trying to project more confidence than I felt.  

“And the boys,” Shane murmured, leaning close enough for me to get a whiff of his musky perfume. Without the make-up, he looked to be around my age, maybe a little younger. He was at least a foot taller than me, even in his flat boots, and moved with liquid grace as he draped his long arms over my shoulders. “Did you like the show?”

Shane’s eyes were warm and bright, and he was looking at me as though my opinion mattered more than anything in the entire world. I bet you look at all the boys like that, I thought, but I was too entranced to care. I remembered the long, lean expanse of Shane’s body, her skin like milky satin under the stage lights. Her gorgeous voice, singing like she was possessed by Judy Garland herself as she dragged that endless train across the stage. It was everything I dreamed I would get to see when I first moved to London. 

“Yeah. You were brilliant,” I said breathlessly, unsure of what to do with my hands and wanting nothing more than to touch him.

“Just brilliant?” Shane replied, his voice light and teasing. “I saw you watching me.”

I smiled shyly, simultaneously pleased and mortified that he’d noticed me gawking from behind the bar. “It was the best show I’ve ever seen.” 

Shane flashed that wide, brilliant smile, and I impulsively reached up to cup his cheek. “Don’t let the other girls hear you say that.” He turned into my touch, brushing his lips against my palm. “They might get jealous.”

“Let them be jealous,” I said, tugging him down to my level. “They should be.”  

Shane kissed me, letting out a pleased little moan as he melted against my lips. He kissed in that delicate, theatrical manner in which he always seemed to carry himself, and I found myself reaching for his lips, chasing his tongue, only for him to slip just out of reach with a wicked grin.   

Shane looked down at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “Want to get out of here?” 

“Yes,” I said quickly. “Where to?”

Shane uncoiled himself from around my shoulders, and I let him go reluctantly. “Let’s go to my place.” He picked up a garment bag and slung it carelessly over his shoulder. “It’s out on the edge of town—honestly, it’s almost not even London—but I live alone, at least.” 

We decided to take the tube to Shane’s flat. It was one of those slippery summer nights in London that follows a day of rain, when the syrupy air clings to your skin and catches in your throat while the city rushes around you. I still loved living in London, then, still thought the city was the most miraculous thing I’d ever seen. And Shane was unimaginably beautiful, his dark hair stained red and gold under the street lights as he swaggered down the sidewalk. A frisson of excitement rushed through me as I walked beside this extraordinary boy in this extraordinary city, as far from home as I could possibly imagine.

It was a Friday night in Soho, so the train was packed and loud. As we left the station, someone jostled Shane into me, and I wrapped an arm around his waist. “Steady,” I said with a grin, taking his bag.

“Sorry.” He grabbed the crossbar overhead with one hand and rested the other on my arm. “So are you a barman full-time?”

I shook my head. “I’m a med student at ICL.”

“Look at you, slumming it with the drag queens,” Shane teased, smirking. 

I ducked my head and laughed. “Don’t be daft, I’m your bloody bartender. What about you? Are you a full-time drag queen?”

“That’s the goal.” Shane glanced to the side, as though something had caught his eye at the edge of his vision, and for a fleeting moment something soft and vulnerable flickered over his face. It made him look terribly young, and I suddenly felt the urge to tug him closer and pull him down against my chest. “I was studying music at UAL, but I’m taking some time off. See if I can’t make this work.” 

Shane turned back to face me and smiled, his easy confidence slipping back in place. “Now that I have a regular gig at Gragg’s, I need you to spill the tea on all the other girls.”

We spent the rest of the trip trading stories about the other drag queens at Gragg’s, many of whom had worked with Shane at other clubs. It was a long trip, but Shane was dazzling even on the dingy train. People were always staring at Shane, no matter what he wore, and since I hadn’t yet learned to dread the heated looks that lingered over his body, I felt like I was with a celebrity that night. 

We got off near the end of the line, then walked the rest of the way to Shane’s flat. His neighborhood was unstylish and residential, with plain, relatively modern flat buildings neatly lining the street. He led me to a building that looked like all the others and up to the third floor, then let us into his flat.

Shane lived in a cramped studio with whitewashed walls and scuffed pine floors. There was an upright piano jammed into one corner, a mattress on the floor, and a kitchen table covered by a sewing machine and a half-finished dress. The rest of the room was a riotous explosion of costumes and shoes and clutter. 

“Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess, I know,” Shane said apologetically as he locked the door behind us. 

“S’alright.” I shrugged. “I work with drag queens, I know the deal. I think being messy might be a prerequisite.” 

Shane pulled me down onto the mattress and kissed me with that light, teasing touch, slipping just out of reach when I tried to press closer. “So is sleeping with the bartender,” he said with a smile.

---

I awoke before Shane the following morning. He was sprawled out on his stomach with the sheets tangled around his waist, and I spent a few minutes watching him sleep and remembering the smooth curve of his back under my hands, his sinuous body moving over me, the lush heat of his mouth. 

Eventually I sat up and checked my phone. My flatmate, Tia, had texted me the night before:

any plans tmrw? just met a VERY sexy scarification artist, might get something done, should be fun. u should come!

I texted back. god, she must be terrifying, can’t wait to meet her. depends on the time. with someone rn, not sure when i’ll be free.

The sheets rustled, and I looked over to see Shane blinking muzzily up at me. “Hey,” he said, his voice husky with sleep. 

“Morning,” I said, smiling down at him. 

Shane nuzzled against my hip, his lips soft and warm against my bare skin. “Didn’t expect you to stay over.” 

I lay back down and slipped my arm around his waist. “Nice to see you in the daylight.”

Shane smirked impishly. He looked decadent beyond belief, with his heavy eyelids and his mass of curls spread across the pillow. “Still think I look incredible, even with my bedhead?” 

“Yeah.” I kissed him, and he sighed into my mouth. “Bedhead never looked so good.”

“Mmmm. Flatterer. I like that in a man.” Shane yawned. “You can shower if you want.”

“Might do,” I said, rubbing his back. 

“Not going to kick you out, but s’fine if you need to leave.” Shane’s eyes fluttered shut. “Sorry. So tired.” 

“Go back to sleep.” I kissed his shoulder. “I don’t mind.” 

“You’re really lovely, Isaac,” Shane murmured dreamily.

Something in my chest fluttered dangerously. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Shane didn’t respond, and I could tell from his shallow, steady breathing that he’d fallen back asleep. I held him for a while longer, drifting in and out of consciousness. Every time I opened my eyes to see his face on the pillow beside me, I took a moment to catalog his smooth skin, his full lips, the faint dusting of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose.

Even then, I knew to appreciate the moments when I held Shane in my arms. He wasn’t the first boy I’d slept with after one conversation—I was a bartender at a drag club, after all—nor was he the first to act surprised when I stayed over. And I’d brought a few boys back to my flat only to wake up in an empty bed the next morning. But while I knew better than to expect that Shane would want to see me again, I couldn’t help but hope he would.   

After about an hour, I rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. It was, as I expected, miniscule and incredibly grungy, with every free surface covered with cosmetics. I turned on the shower and waited for the hot water to kick in, then stepped inside. 

I was washing my hair and beard with some incredibly fancy-smelling shampoo when I heard the shower curtain slide open. “Hello,” Shane said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I rinsed the suds out of my eyes and grinned at him. “Hey.”

“Mind if I join you?” Shane asked.

I grabbed his arm and tugged him inside. “It’s your shower.”

“Just trying to be polite,” Shane teased, gripping my hips. “Turn around.”

Afterwards, when we were drying off, I asked Shane if he wanted to get breakfast. 

“Maybe next time,” Shane said apologetically as he towelled off his hair. “I have to be somewhere in an hour.”

I pulled on my trousers and smiled. “So there’s going to be a next time?” 

“Sure. Though I should be clear, I’m not looking for a relationship right now.” He smiled ruefully. “Not really boyfriend material, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright.” I shrugged. Disappointing, sure, but hardly unexpected. “I’d still like to see you again.”

Shane wrapped his long arms around my shoulders and pulled me close for a kiss, the softest brush of his lips against mine. “Good,” he murmured. “I’d like to see you again, too.”   

Zolf turns the page over, and he’s surprised to realise he’s disappointed that it’s blank. It’s...interesting. So many things remind him of the Harrison Campbell novels he loves best, but there’s a hint of something darker lingering at the edges of the story that feels different from what he’s used to reading. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But he knows he wants to find out what happens next, and that the thought of talking to Oscar tomorrow makes him oddly nervous.

Chapter Text

When Oscar walks into Coriander the following morning, Zolf isn’t reading a Harrison Campbell novel. He’s reading the first chapter of Bad Sons, scribbling notes in the margins with a stubby pencil, and Oscar’s heart pounds in his chest.

“Good morning,” Oscar says breathlessly. “You’re reading it.”

Zolf looks up and nods. “Yeah, I read it last night. I’m just writing down a few notes for you.”

Oscar beams at Zolf. “You have notes?”

“Well, yeah.” Zolf cocks his head and frowns. “You said you wanted to hear what I thought.”

“I know, I just didn’t—” Oscar shakes his head, still beaming. “I’m just really, really pleased that you have feedback for me. And I want you to know, I’m incredibly receptive to constructive criticism. Honestly, the more, the merrier.”

“Alright.” Zolf sets down his pencil. “D’you—d’you want to talk about it now?”

“Yes, I would love that.” Oscar leans eagerly against the counter. “What did you think?”

“Hold on, let me get you a cortado. Oh, and uh, give me sec.” Zolf shuffles off to the kitchen and returns a minute later with a croissant on a plate. “Here.”

Oscar picks up the croissant reverently. It’s beautifully crisp and a lovely, lacquered golden brown. “Zolf,” he breathes. “I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

“For goodness sake, Oscar, it’s a bloody croissant,” Zolf snaps. He whirls around and faffs with the espresso machine, furiously rubbing his neck. “Don’t make it weird.”

Oscar takes a bite of croissant, groaning with happiness as he savours the caramelized, buttery layers. “Unbelievable. This is the best croissant I’ve ever had. This is the Platonic ideal of a croissant. This is one of the greatest moments of my entire life.”

“You’re making it weird. Stop it, or I won’t talk to you about your stupid novel.”

Oscar swallows and nods, grinning. “Alright.” He sets down his bag and digs out his notebook and pen, leaning against the counter as he waits for Zolf to finish with his coffee. Eventually Zolf shoves the cortado at Oscar and perches on his stool behind the till, looking at a point past Oscar’s shoulder. Best to go easy on him, at least for a little while. 

“Thank you.” Oscar picks up the cortado and takes a sip. “For the coffee, and for reading my draft. What did you think?”

“It’s interesting.” Zolf turns to face him, and Oscar smiles encouragingly. “I reckon I understand Shane as a character. He’s kinda like Violet in Love in a Time of Hardship.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know how Violet wants to discover the cure to the plague, and she’s willing to risk everything to do it? And for a long time, she thinks a relationship with Rory will only get in her way? It’s like that, right? Shane’s ambitious, and a little arrogant.”

“Hmmm.” Oscar taps his pen against his lips. “I agree, but I think the comparison to Violet only goes so far because—”

“No, no, I know,” Zolf cuts in. “That’s just a reference point. What I mean to say is, Shane’s got priorities, and Isaac will never be his first priority.”

“Yes, that’s a great way to put it.” Isaac ≠ Shane’s priority, Oscar writes in his notebook.

“But Isaac.” Zolf frowns at the manuscript. “I’m not sure I understand him.”

Oscar nods and smiles wryly. “I’m not sure I understand him either. I think he doesn’t know what he wants. Do you mind if I tell you about what I’ve plotted out so far? I think it might be helpful to understand his narrative arc.” 

Zolf gestures for him to go ahead, and Oscar continues. “So right after Isaac and Shane sleep together for the first time, Isaac gets a job as a bartender at a fetish club called Other London. And he finds out that Shane works there, too, as a dancer. But it’s very different from the kind of vaudeville, showgirl aesthetic of Gragg’s, which is a very traditional drag cabaret. Shane’s much more explicit at Other London, much more hands-on with the clientele if you will, and Isaac gets possessive over Shane in a way that’s not really acceptable, particularly since they’re not in a relationship.”

“Hmmm.” Zolf rests his chin on his hand. “D’you want Isaac to be likeable?”

“Yes. I think he’s naive and unrealistically romantic, not cruel. He just has this very traditional vision of what it means to be successful, both professionally and romantically, if that makes sense. Like Shane needs to be a ‘respectable’ drag queen, and he shouldn’t sleep with the clientele. And I think Isaac has a bit of a saviour complex.” Oscar takes a sip of his cortado, regarding Zolf thoughtfully. “What do you think would make him feel like that?”

Zolf shrugs and crosses his arms. “Guilt, maybe. You said Isaac left home when his parents wanted him to stay, right?” Oscar nods. “Yeah. So he probably feels like he abandoned his responsibilities, and now he has to redeem himself by caring for the people around him.”

“That makes a lot of sense. Hold on,” Oscar mumbles, scribbling down Zolf’s comment. “So I think what I need is a scene where Isaac has to take care of Shane.”

“Yeah, but if you want Isaac to be likable, then that scene shouldn’t be forced. It should be a situation where Shane really needs someone to take care of him, and Isaac comes through. Like the scene in The Heart Beats Faster, when Sienna breaks the vase to distract from Renee’s faux pas at the manor party.” 

“Huh. I like that. What if...what if Shane gets drunk one night, and Isaac takes him back to his flat to take care of him? 

“Yeah, sure, that could work.” 

“And, uhm, and Isaac goes a little overboard,” Oscar says, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “Like he doesn’t just give Shane a place to sleep, he stays up all night watching over him, and cleans him up, then in the morning he cooks him breakfast.”

“I imagine Shane would be a bit taken aback by that kind of attention, but not necessarily in a bad way. Like in When Passions Collide, when Richard tells Jennifer about his vision for her portrait, and she’s confused as to why someone would have that kind of intense interest in her, but she’s still intrigued.”

“Yes!” Oscar grins at Zolf. “I knew you’d be brilliant at this.”

Zolf shrugs and gives Oscar a little half-smile. “I read a lot of romance novels,” he mumbles.

“I can tell.” Oscar leans forward and lets his grin soften into something intimate and sly. “What do you think of Shane and Isaac as a couple? I still don’t know if they’re going to end up together.”

Zolf raises his eyebrows incredulously. “It’s a romance. That’s the whole point. They have to end up together.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Oscar says carefully. “There’s this standard, very linear, very traditionally heteronormative romance plot that I’m interested in potentially subverting here. More specifically, why do we as a society treat people who want to commit themselves to one person as morally superior to those who don’t want to be in a monogamous relationship?”

“Well, I can’t really speak to all that.” Zolf waves a hand, looking frustrated. “But just from the bits I’ve read and heard from you today, it sounds like they should end up together. I reckon they’d be good for each other.”

Oscar smiles at Zolf warmly. Yes, we would, wouldn’t we? “I agree with you. But I don’t know if they will end up together. I think this story is a little more complicated than that.”

Zolf scowls and crosses his arms. “I mean, you’re the author. Just write them so they end up together.”

Oscar can tell from the hard set of Zolf’s face that this isn’t a point he’s willing to concede, no matter what Oscar says about characters having a life of their own, and the morning has been going so well that he doesn’t want to ruin things. “Maybe I will. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” Oscar shuts his notebook. “Thank you so much for doing this for me. I can’t tell you how helpful this has been.”

“One other thing.” Zolf pages through the draft. “Why don’t you write the sex scenes? They just sort of...end. It’s odd.”

Oscar blinks at Zolf, momentarily taken aback. “Well, for the audience I write for—readers interested in ‘literary fiction,’” he says, using air quotes, “sexually explicit content isn’t very marketable, I’m afraid.”

Zolf shrugs and hands him the draft. “Seems like a bit of a missed opportunity, but what do I know?”

Oscar smiles as he slips the draft under his arm. “Missed opportunity in what way?” 

“For intimacy. To show how they feel about each other. Not sayin’ it’s the only way, but what was that rubbish you said about The Heart Beats Faster? Somethin’ about emotional impact, and the greenhouse scene.”

“How erotic romance precipitates an unusually strong visceral response in the reader.” Oscar nods. “And I stand by that opinion, but I also think there’s something to be said about the particular impact of leaving intimate scenes off the page. It creates a sense of privacy, and withholding the release, as it were, from the reader, can cause them to yearn for the protagonists.”

“Sure.” Zolf shrugs again and pulls out Two Nights in Jodhpurs. “Let me know if there’s anything else you want me to read.”

Oscar collects his things and settles in at his table, beaming. If he applies himself, maybe he’ll be able to finish something for Zolf by tomorrow morning. 

“Chapter two!” Oscar crows triumphantly, sliding the draft across the counter the next day. 

Zolf looks up from Two Nights in Jodhpurs and raises his eyebrows. “That was fast.”

“Well, to be fair, it’s only part of chapter two. But I wanted to get your feedback on the ‘Isaac caring for drunk Shane’ scene.”

“Yeah, alright.” Zolf sets the draft aside and goes to fetch Oscar’s croissant. “Here you go. I’ll bring out your cortado in a minute.”

“Zolf.” Oscar smiles and takes out his wallet. “I still need to pay.”

Shit. “Right,” Zolf mutters, fumbling with the till. 

It’s 1:00 p.m., and Zolf has just delivered Oscar his macchiato and a pork katsu bowl, and now he’s back behind the counter, pretending to read Two Nights in Jodhpurs while he watches Oscar eat. 

Oscar eats slowly, idly eating a bite of katsu here, a mouthful of rice there, and ultimately takes the better part of an hour to finish half of his lunch. It’d been the same with the yukgaejang yesterday, lazy spoonfuls of soup until it must’ve gone ice cold, and the bowl was still half empty when Zolf came to clean up his table. At first Zolf had wondered if Oscar couldn’t handle spicy food, but pork katsu was hardly spicy. And Oscar had polished off the masoor dal in less than ten minutes…  

Because you eat dal with your hands. If Oscar has to put down his pen, he remembers to eat. 

Zolf smiles to himself and tucks this realisation away with his knowledge of Sasha’s low spice tolerance and Azu’s fondness for pickles. He’s about to turn back to his book when Oscar’s draft catches his eye. Why not? Oscar’s deep into his manic writing phase and won’t resurface for at least another hour. And if he’s honest, Zolf wants to know what happens, is already quietly rooting for Isaac to...well, he’s not quite sure yet. Depends where Oscar takes him, he supposes. Zolf grabs the draft and flips it open.   

We met Tia’s scarification artist outside the building where she worked, a fetish club called Other London. She was deathly pale, with hollow eyes ringed with black eyeliner beneath her spiky fringe, and wore a studded leather jacket and matching trousers. “I’m Cat,” she said, letting us into the club. “You here to watch?”

“Uhm, yeah,” I said as we stepped inside. “That ok?”

“That a kink for you or something?” Cat asked, leading us towards the back of the club. “You’re not allowed to wank in my studio.”

Tia laughed. “God, no. He’s just here for moral support.”

“Yeah, alright. We’re in here.” Cat unlocked a door and ushered us into a small room with a massage table, a tattoo chair, a sink, and enough medical supplies to make me feel both comforted and a little nervous. She turned to Tia. “You decide what you want?”

“A heart on my upper back, right below my neck,” Tia said, her warm brown eyes sparkling with excitement. She was one of the bravest people I’d ever met, and scarification was right up her alley. “Just to start, though. Could you leave enough space so we could build a more elaborate design around it later on?”

Cat nodded as she opened a drawer and selected a handful of blades. “Yeah, of course.” She gestured at the massage table. “Take your shirt off and lie down.” She began sterilizing the blades. “So Isaac, what’s your gig?”

I perched on the tattoo chair. “I’m a med student. But for now, I’m a bartender.” I pulled out my phone and texted Tia. god, your type is absolutely terrifying. 

“No kidding.” Cat appraised me. “You looking for a job, mate?”

I shrugged. I was always looking for work, especially in the summer. “Sure.” I heard Tia giggle and checked my phone. i kno, isn’t she fab?

“Can you work nights?” Cat asked. “Like, proper nights, the 9:00 p.m.–5:00 a.m. shift.”

“Yeah, during the week.”

“We host a leather event on Thursdays. You’d be a good fit. A lot of folks on the scene go for that, you know, butch look.” Cat glanced at Tia, who beamed at her, then turned back to me. “I bet you’re ripped under that jumper.”

“Oh, he is!” Tia gushed.

I huffed out a nervous laugh and stood up a little straighter. “I lift.” 

Cat went to the sink to wash her hands. “You comfortable showing skin? There’s a dress code.” 

“Uhm.” I raised my eyebrows at Tia, who shrugged. “What’s the pay?”

“Worth it.” Cat slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves and a surgical mask. “Probably, anyways. Dunno your personal price tag.”

“Yeah, okay. I’d be interested.”

“I’ll put a word in.” Cat pulled up a stool beside Tia and sterilized the skin on her back, then picked up a scalpel. “Alright, Tia. You ready for me, love?”

---

“You’re the new bartender.”

I looked up to see a willowy drag queen wearing a black leather bustier and a wide, brilliant smile. “And you’re the girl everyone wants to fuck.”

Shane laughed and tossed her long, dark ponytail over her shoulder. “You know me so well.” She leaned over the bar and snapped my harness playfully. “You look fantastic!”

“Don’t be an arse. I feel ridiculous.” I swatted her hand away, grinning. “Something to drink?” 

“Vodka soda, please.” Shane leaned against the bar as I mixed her drink. “Who did your makeup?”

“I did. It took bloody ages. And then Cat took one look at me and wouldn’t stop laughing until I washed it off and let her fix it for me.” I set Shane’s drink on the bar and rolled my eyes at her as she laughed.

“That’s our Cat,” Shane said. “So moody and proper goth until you look like an absolute idiot. Then her face lights up like it’s Christmas.”

“You know, I’ve taken surgery electives, but somehow I still can’t hold an eyeliner brush steady. You’ll have to teach me.”

“I’d love to.” Shane took a sip of her drink and eyed me appreciatively. “It’s so good to see you. What a fabulous surprise.”

“You too,” I said with a smile. “You here to work?” 

“Always.” She smirked. “I dance. And I work the floor, make sure everyone’s having a nice time.”

“Hey, what are you doing this Saturday?” I asked. “My flatmate and I are having some people over. Should be fun. Cat’s coming.”

“I’ll be there. Text me the details.” Shane downed the rest of her drink and set the glass on the bar. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to it.” She winked as she turned to walk away. “Welcome to Other London, darling.”

---

That Saturday, Shane showed up at my door at half past midnight, swaying dangerously on his long legs. “Hi. S’Isaac, right?” he slurred. “Can I come in?”

“Hey.” I laughed incredulously and held the door open for him. “Long night?”

“Shane, what the fuck?" Cat hissed over my shoulder, her eyes flashing with disgust. "You're wankered again?"

Shane staggered inside. “Ohmygod, s’Cat! You’re a bloody ninja, you are. Should put a bell on you or somethin’.” He snorted. “Like a proper cat!”

Cat rolled her eyes. “You idiot.”

“Alright, Shane?” I asked.

“Yeah, now that I’m ‘ere with you.”

Shane draped his arm around my neck and leaned down to kiss me. He reeked of vodka, that harsh, colorless scent of too many nights hiding from rusty voices lethal with exhaustion, the kitchen floor glittering with broken glass.

I ducked my head, catching his waist as he collapsed against me. "Easy, love."

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit.” Cat grimaced. “I can take him home.”

Shane wrapped himself around me, and I adjusted my grip on his waist. “Don’t think he’s in any condition to ride the tube. And no cabbie’s gonna pick him up like—” I took Shane’s hand as he tried to grab my arse. “For goodness sake, Shane, try it on when you can stand up straight.” 

Shane settled against me and nuzzled into my neck. “Absolutely nothin’ straight ‘bout me,” Shane mumbled.

“Don’t worry about it, Cat,” I assured her. “I’ll just put him in my room. Can you let Tia know?” 

Cat nodded and sighed. “It’s been ages since he’s pulled something like this. Sorry he’s such an arse.”

“S’alright.” I turned to Shane. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.” 

I ducked as Shane tried to kiss me again. “Wanted t’get you back into bed all week.” 

“Alright, alright.” As I started guiding Shane down the hall, he tripped and lurched forward, and I caught him before he fell flat on his face. “Easy now.” 

Shane stumbled, his legs giving out beneath him. I picked him up, gathering his long, loose limbs in my arms as best as I could. “Bet you think I’m a proper artist,” he mumbled, nestling against my shoulder.

You're a mess, I thought, my heart pounding from exertion and a million emotions I didn't have the courage to name. “Course I do.” His boots dragged a dark smudge across the wall, and I pulled him closer to my chest.

Tia poked her head out of the kitchen. “Is everything alright?” 

“Uhm, have you met Shane?” I hoisted him up as he started slipping out of my grasp.

“S’nice t’be held by you.” Shane’s curls tickled my neck as he nuzzled into my chest. “Glad you’re at Other London now.”

“Oh.” Tia hid a smile with her hand. “Oh, dear.” 

“He should be alright. Just needs a bit of a lie-down.”  

I shouldered open the door to my room and laid Shane on the bed. “Here we are.” He made a little noise of protest as I disentangled his arms from my shoulders. I unlaced his boots and yanked them off his feet. “I’ll get you some water.” 

Shane’s eyes fluttered shut, and I headed off to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. When I got back, he was curled into a ball and panting.

“I think I’m going to—” Shane raked a hand through his hair and swallowed. “I’m going to—” 

“Fuck,” I muttered, grabbing the rubbish bin. I dashed over to the bed and hauled Shane upright just as he threw up all over himself. 

“God, Shane,” I sighed, pushing the bin under his chin. I pulled his hair out of his face and rubbed his straining back as he continued throwing up into the bin. “There you go. Let it all out.” Shane’s vomit was all bile, and I winced sympathetically as he retched and coughed. 

After a few minutes, Shane slumped back, his head lolling sideways. “Hey, hey. Shane. Shane.” I slid behind him and pulled him against my chest. “Let’s keep you sitting up for now. You with me?”

Shane whimpered and nodded.  

“Good.” Shane was cold and sticky with vomit, and despite the mild summer night he was trembling. But his pulse was steady, and he was breathing normally, and once I was sure the worst of it had passed, I laid him back down on the bed and turned him onto his side. 

Shane felt so fragile beneath my hands, and an urgent, aching tenderness bloomed in my chest as he weakly gripped my wrist. “Stay,” he whispered. His eyes were glassy and exhausted as he looked up at me, and in that moment I felt as though I would do anything to make him feel better. 

I crouched beside the bed and took Shane’s hand. “You’re alright, love. I’ll look after you.” I smoothed his hair away from his forehead. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Just sit tight. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

I went to the bathroom and rinsed out the bin, then wet a flannel and returned to my room. Shane stirred as I shut my bedroom door. “You awake?” I asked softly. 

Shane nodded and rubbed his face. “Sorry,” he croaked. “Feel like rubbish.”

I walked over to the bed and set the bin within reach. “Can you sit up?”

Shane shakily pushed himself onto his elbows, and I helped him sit the rest of the way up. “Let’s get you out of this manky shirt. Arms up.” Shane dutifully raised his arms, and I pulled his t-shirt over his head. I chucked his shirt in the laundry bin and passed him the flannel. “Here. Wipe your face.” 

As he wiped himself down, I retrieved the glass of water. “Rinse out your mouth, now,” I said, handing him the glass.  

Shane accepted the glass and took a sip, grimacing as he spat into the bin. “So attractive.” 

I chuckled as I sat beside him and rubbed his back. “I won’t hold it against you.” I gestured at the glass in his hand. “Have a drink of water, and then I’ll stop bothering you.”

Shane looked at me over the rim of the glass as he took a sip of water. “Darling, you can bother me as much as you like.” 

I leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “That line would be far more effective if you didn’t have vomit on your jeans.”

Shane covered his face with his hands and laughed. “God, I’m a fucking mess.” He flopped back on the bed and unzipped his jeans, peeling them off. 

I tugged his jeans out of his hands and dropped them in the laundry bin. “You want a shower?”

Shane nodded and dragged himself out of bed. I handed him a towel and gestured down the hell. “First door on the left.”

As Shane showered I stripped the bed and did a load of laundry. I was just finishing changing my sheets when Shane wandered back in, his skin warm and flushed from the shower. I smiled at him. “Feel better?”

“A bit.” Shane slipped into bed with a soft groan. “Thank you. For looking after me. It really means a lot.”

“Of course.” I lay down beside him and stroked his hair. “Anytime.”

Shane rested his hand on mine. “I’m sorry for showing up like that.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” I took his hand and laced our fingers together. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“No, you’re not,” Shane said, wrinkling his nose delicately. 

I smiled and kissed his forehead. “Yes, I am.” 

Shane tugged his hand free and ran his fingertips along the waistband of my joggers. “Let me make it up to you.” 

I caught his hand and pressed it against my chest. “Have breakfast with me tomorrow.” 

Shane blinked up at me for a moment, as though I was trying to trick him into something. “Alright.”

I kissed the back of his hand and switched off the light. “Time for you to get some sleep.”

Zolf hums softly to himself. Better, but he still thinks Isaac needs more depth. Maybe that could come from his relationship with Tia and Cat. Zolf digs a pencil out of the till and starts scrawling notes in the margins.

Chapter Text

“Did you know that Oscar’s a writer?” Zolf asks Azu lightly, pulling a batch of samosas out of the oven.

“Of course! He wrote Lost Time!” Azu leans in close, lowering her voice. “You know, they say Ari is based on Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan.”

“Who the hell is Ari?”

“The protagonist’s best friend. The man he loves.” Azu sighs, clutching her chest. “It’s unrequited, of course. The yearning is extraordinary.”  

Zolf rolls his eyes as he pulls jars of lime pickle and coriander chutney out of the fridge. “This Hamid fellow seems to be coming up an awful lot lately.” 

“Hush, you, and hand over the lime pickle.” Azu snatches the jar out of his hands and spoons a heaping serving onto her plate. “Hamid is a brilliant writer, and a lovely person!”

Zolf raises his eyebrows skeptically. “And how would you know that?” 

“Oscar sent Hamid a letter I wrote and asked him to sign my limited edition copy of his Flying into Fire quartet, and Hamid wrote the most beautiful inscription. And then called to thank me for my letter, and we spoke for an hour about his writing, and his influences, and other authors we admire.” Azu flicks her gaze across the café at Oscar, who’s flipping through a copy of Love in a Time of Hardship and scribbling notes in the margins. “And Oscar, of course. Hamid speaks very highly of him. Apparently Hamid was the first person to read Lost Time.”   

Zolf grabs the hot baking sheet without thinking and swears. “Bully for him,” he hisses, blowing on his fingers.

Azu smiles indulgently. “Honestly, Zolf, there’s no need to be jealous. That was years ago.”

Zolf frowns as he scoops the samosas off the sheet with a spatula and arranges them on a plate. “I am not jealous! Jealous of what?”

“That’s just what Sasha says.” 

“Yes, well, to be fair, according to Sasha you talk about Hamid day and night.” 

“Ahhh, but Sasha knows my heart belongs to her,” Azu says, drizzling chutney over her samosas. “Can you say the same about Oscar?” 

Zolf presses his mouth into a thin line. Azu always tries to play matchmaker with him, and it’s frustrating, but it’s also so quintessentially her— she wants nothing more than for him to be happy, and he loves her for it. “Come off it, Azu,” Zolf says. “I’m not interested in Oscar.”

“If you say so.” Azu smirks as she pops a samosa in her mouth. “Oscar’s quite the fan of your cooking, you know.”

“I’m a good cook.” Zolf shrugs and helps himself to a samosa. “It’s my job.”

“Most of us get paid for doing our jobs,” Azu says gently.  

Zolf snaps his head up and glares at Azu. “He wasn’t eating.”

“I know.” Azu nudges his shoulder and grins, impossibly fond. “You’re so lovely, Zolf.”

“Isn’t he?”

Zolf looks up at Oscar, who’s draped against the counter, smiling softly. The light catches in the fine lines creasing his cheeks and crinkling his eyes, whispers of the long history of that easy smile.

Zolf leaps off his stool and starts piling samosas on a plate. “Uhm. Hey.” He spoons coriander chutney into a ramekin and slides the plate across the counter. “I, uhm. I made samosas.”

I made them for you.

“You stunner.” Oscar’s cheeks dimple as his smile spreads across his face, deepening the lines framing his lips and scrunching up his eyes. It’s too wide to suit his fine features, with none of the sensuous beauty of the smirk he wears so well, but Zolf finds he can’t look away. “Will you allow me to pay you for them?”

Zolf catches a whiff of Oscar’s warm, floral scent when he leans closer to take the plate, and for a horrible moment he’s at a complete loss for words.

“Absolutely not,” Azu gasps, bringing Zolf back to his senses.

“Well.” Oscar turns that dazzling smile on Azu, who beams back at him. “If Azu says so, I couldn’t possibly disagree.”

“I’ll just, uh, make you that macchiato.” Zolf scrubs his itchy palms on his apron, then turns towards the espresso machine. “Sit tight.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Oscar says, and Zolf feels the heat of his gaze warming the back of his neck. “Take your time.” 

Oscar catches Zolf going through his draft several times throughout the day, and every time he’s furiously texted Marie, whose responses have become increasingly curt. 

omg he’s reading my draft

Sorry, who’s reading your draft? And since when do you have a draft?

zolf 

obviously

keep up

it’s not a full draft just some excerpts

You should send me what you’ve written so far, so I know you’re headed in the right direction.

omg he’s making notes

he has the most beautiful hands

and he uses this really tiny pencil

it makes his hands look massive

Oscar gets a text from Eldarion, and he swipes over to read it.

I bet your dick would make his hands look massive.

Oscar snorts and bites his lip to keep from laughing as he goes back to texting Marie.

omg stop showing eldarion my texts

she doesn’t understand

When are you going to send me something to read?

it’s not ready for you yet

But somehow it’s ready for your barista?

zolf is my muse

i need him to write

he’s essential to my artistic process

Oscar, I am your agent. You need me to get published. I am essential to your professional future. Send me something, and soon.

When Oscar orders his afternoon cortado, Zolf brings it to his table along with the draft of Bad Sons. “Here. I made some notes.” 

Oscar grins like a fool and gestures to the chair across from him. “Do you have a minute to talk? I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

“Yeah, sure,” Zolf says, sitting down. “It’s good. Better. But I still reckon you need to do more for Isaac.”

Oscar flips to an empty page in his notebook. “Say more.”

“Well, he’s just a bit flat, you know? He’s a good guy, hard worker, sure. Just not terribly compelling, especially when compared with Shane.”

Oscar nods. “You know, I’ve found writing Isaac challenging for a number of reasons. First of all, I think you’re absolutely right that I’ve written Shane as a more compelling character, largely because I understand Shane’s flaws far better than Isaac’s.”

Zolf leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Why’s that?” 

“Because he’s made a lot of the same mistakes I made when I was his age.” Oscar smiles ruefully as he remembers a whirlwind of dark clubs and hazy mornings, waking up naked in a strange bed with no memory of the night before. “But being as considerate and principled as Isaac, particularly in my early twenties...is a bit outside the realm of my experience. And secondly, writing from Isaac’s perspective has proven to be especially tricky because he’s an unreliable narrator.”

“Unreliable in what way?”

“Well, he has a massive blind spot when it comes to himself. Which is to say, I’m reluctant to write Isaac as self-reflective because I think he deflects attention away from himself as much as possible. He’s very observant, but as you pointed out the last time we spoke about this, his attentiveness to others may be a coping mechanism to avoid worrying about himself.”

Zolf cocks his head, frowning. “Did I say that?”

Oscar flips back to his notes from their conversation. Feels like he “abandoned his responsibilities”—feels obligated to “redeem” self by caring for others. (A/N—self-effacing, needs a project). “Not in those words, but that was my takeaway.”

“Huh.” Zolf rubs his beard thoughtfully. “So if Isaac’s such a mystery to you, why’d you decide to write the novel from his perspective?”

“Because I find him fascinating.” Oscar picks up his cortado and takes a long sip, regarding Zolf over the edge of the glass. “I need to understand him.”

“Well, if you reckon Isaac isn’t one to talk about himself, maybe you could show more about him through his interactions with others.” Zolf nods at the draft. “I flagged a few places where I think this could come up, but there’s a lot that could be done with Tia and Cat.” 

“Absolutely.” Oscar sets down his coffee and picks up his pen. “I want that to be a significant part of the novel, actually. Ultimately I think Tia and Cat are more important to Isaac than Shane, and the narrative should reflect that.” Oscar taps his pen on his notebook thoughtfully. “I realise he lives with Tia and just met Cat, but based on their personalities, who do you think he’d be closer with?”

Zolf’s answer is swift and unthinking. “Cat.” 

Oscar writes BFF = Sasha in his notebook. “What makes you say that?”

“She’s straightforward and competent and loyal. You know, like how she called Shane out on his poor behavior, then immediately offered to take him home. I reckon Isaac would appreciate that.” Zolf shrugs. “She reminds me of Sasha.”

Oscar smiles conspiratorially. “She may have been something of an inspiration.”

“Huh. No kidding.” The corners of Zolf’s mouth quirk up, and something bright and warm sparks in Oscar’s chest. “Yeah, she’s not bad, Cat. You should write more of her. And Tia seems lovely, the sort of person who brings out the best in people. A bit like Sam in When Passions Collide, you know, someone Jennifer could really rely on.”

“Yes, that’s an excellent reference. What I love about Sam in Passions is how they’re this positive force for Jennifer, who’s incredibly cynical. Sure, they’re a bit of a thembo, but just so profoundly good, and having them as a counterbalance makes for a really healthy, constructive relationship. And I think Isaac needs someone like that in his life, someone who can show him that there’s good in the world.”

“Would you say that Isaac is cynical? I thought you said he was naive.”

“Well, I think one of the reasons I find him so fascinating is this tension between cynicism and naivete in his character.” Oh, Oscar hadn’t thought of it that way before. Cynicism vs. naivete, he writes. “He’s romantic and hopeful by nature, but the world hasn’t always been kind to him, and he’s got a chip on his shoulder.”

“Not sure that’s come across yet, to be honest.” Zolf takes a moment to page through the draft. “Maybe you could introduce some of his past by showing more of his relationship with Tia, since it sounds like they’ve known each other for some time. Is she a student as well?” 

“Yes, she’s a nursing student, and like Isaac, she’s the first person in her family to go to uni.” 

Zolf leans forward, his eyes bright with interest. “Oh, there’s a lot there. You could compare their experiences, and their relationships with their families. You know, like in Love in the Time of Hardship, when...” He trails off and deflates a little, then starts to stand up. “Sorry, I should probably get back to—”

Disappointment rushes through Oscar, snuffing out that little spark of hope, and he rests his hand on Zolf’s arm to stop him from leaving. “No, please, you have no idea how much I appreciate you doing this for me. I—” 

I love spending time with you. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. But this isn’t about needing to know how Oscar feels. No, this is about Zolf memorising his order and saving him a croissant every morning and feeding him lunch. It’s about wanting to feel needed, not just desired.

“You’re brilliant, and you’ve made all the difference,” Oscar says softly. “You make me want to write for the first time in years.” 

Zolf flushes red to the tips of his ears and fiddles with the hem of his apron. “Well, if you’re sure.” 

“Of course I’m sure.” Oscar smiles at Zolf as he sits back down, that bright, warm spark flaring back to life in his chest. “Now, as you were.”

Chapter Text

It’s raining harder than Oscar has ever seen before in Wynsbury, and of course he left his umbrella back at the cottage. He frowns out the window, wincing when he hears a crash of thunder. He’d been holding out hope that the storm might blow over before Coriander closed, but it’s already 4:00 p.m. and things are only getting worse. 

Zolf walks over to the door and flips the sign to “Closed.” “Closing up early?” Oscar asks, his heart sinking. He hates getting wet.

“Yeah. No one’s gonna show up in this kind of rain.” Zolf grabs a rag and a spray bottle and starts wiping down the tables. “But you can stay here and wait out the storm. If you want to, that is.”

Oh. Maybe the rain wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. “I’d love to.” Oscar grins broadly at Zolf and flutters his lashes. “How incredibly romantic. It’s just like the greenhouse scene in The Heart Beats Faster.”  

“For goodness sake, that’s absolutely not what I had in mind.” To Oscar’s delight, a warm flush stains the back of Zolf’s neck. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“What did you have in mind?” Oscar leans forward and rests his chin on his hand. “I am entirely at your disposal.” 

“Uhm.” Zolf busies himself with wiping down the tables. “Any progress on the next chapter?”

“Not enough to share with you. Hopefully within the next day or so.” Oscar cocks his head and regards the back of Zolf’s head thoughtfully. Zolf had suggested introducing parts of Isaac’s backstory earlier in the narrative, and Oscar is trying to write a scene where Isaac bakes his mother’s bread recipe with Tia. Well, it’s worth a try, anyways. “Would you teach me how to bake bread?”

Zolf turns to look at him, smiling softly. He looks intrigued, as though Oscar has said something charming but entirely unexpected, and Oscar beams back, his heart fluttering dangerously in his chest. “Yeah, I could do that. What kind of bread do you like?” 

“Brioche?” Oscar replies hopefully.

Zolf chuckles and shakes his head. “Of course you like brioche. That’s a bit challenging for a beginner, and frankly, I doubt you have the patience. Have you ever had challah?”

“The Jewish bread? I can’t say I have.”

“It’s similar to brioche but better, in my opinion, and far easier to make.” Zolf finishes wiping down the tables and starts walking towards the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Oscar removes his waistcoat, then follows Zolf into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. “I can’t believe you’re letting me behind the counter."

“Yeah, me neither. Put on an apron.” Zolf gestures at the bundle of brown aprons hanging on a hook beside the oven. “They’ll be a bit short on you, but it’s better than nothin’. Otherwise you’ll get flour all over.”

“I’d let you make a mess of me,” Oscar teases, but he’s not going to turn down the opportunity to wear something of Zolf’s, not if he’s offering. He pulls an apron off the hook and slips it over his head, wrapping the ties around his waist. 

“Careful what you wish for.” Zolf looks over from the counter where he’s setting out the ingredients and hands Oscar a pitcher of water. “Here. We need 170 millilitres of water.”

Oscar smiles down at Zolf as he unceremoniously dumps the rest of the ingredients into the bowl, only remembering to explain the measurements half of the time. He knew Zolf would be an atrocious teacher, but he’s being so gruff and inarticulate and quintessentially Zolf that Oscar can’t help but be utterly charmed. “Then you add enough flour until you get the right consistency,” Zolf says, scooping an apparently random amount of flour into the mixing bowl. 

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “How can you tell when the consistency’s right?” 

“You can tell by touch. You want a soft, stretchy dough.” Zolf pushes the bowl in front of Oscar. “Start mixin’ everything together with your hands.”

Oscar gingerly rakes his hands through the ingredients, grimacing when the dough starts sticking to his fingers. “Am I doing this right?”

Zolf laughs. “I thought you weren’t afraid to get messy.”

“Yes, well, that was clearly a line,” Oscar says petulantly. 

Zolf glances into the bowl. “Needs more flour,” he mumbles, scooping in a bit more. “I’m just gonna—” He shoves Oscar over and finishes mixing the dough together. “You’ve got to make sure everything is evenly incorporated.” 

Oscar sighs as he holds up his gummy hands. “I was trying.”

Zolf dusts the counter with flour and plops the dough down. “I’m guessin’ you’ve never baked anything in your life.” 

“Nope.” Oscar tentatively squeezes the dough between his fingers. “What am I supposed to do with it now? 

“Since challah dough is so soft, it’s nice and easy to knead.” Zolf starts working the dough, a rhythmic back and forth motion with his hands. “Use the heel of your hand, then fold the dough back on itself.”

Zolf gestures for Oscar to take over, and Oscar shoves the heel of his hand forward, ripping a ragged gash in the dough. “Like that?” he asks doubtfully.

“No, don’t—” Zolf sighs and reforms the dough into a ball. “You want to stretch the dough, not tear it. Here, let me—” He takes Oscar’s hand, pressing his palm into the dough. 

Oscar’s heart swoops in his chest. Hard, flat calluses grace the tips of Zolf’s fingers, and his palm is warm and rough under a light dusting of flour. Oscar blinks down at Zolf, thrilled and a little giddy, and gently brushes their arms together, smiling as the tips of Zolf’s ears turn bright pink.

“Follow my lead,” Zolf says gruffly. He guides Oscar’s hand forward in a steady, fluid stroke, pulling the dough back down on top of itself with his fingers. “Like that.” He drops Oscar’s hand and steps back. “Lean forward and leverage the weight of your body to knead the dough. You’ll hurt yourself if you rely on just your arms and back.”

Oscar bends over the counter, arching his back as he continues working the dough. He tosses his hair and looks at Zolf over his shoulder, grinning. “Like that?” 

“You idiot.” Zolf scoops up a handful of flour and chucks it at Oscar, hitting him squarely in the face. “You’ll wreck your back that way.”

Oscar lets out a startled laugh and wipes the flour off his face with his arm. “Maybe you should show me what you mean. I thought that worked rather well.” He winks. “I’m a very kinesthetic learner, you know.”

“Like hell you are.” Zolf looks up at him with a little half-smile, his gaze warm and shrewd. “Tell me, Oscar. Are you really that desperate for me to touch you?” He idly adjusts Oscar’s cuff, and Oscar’s hands go still in the dough, the brush of cotton against his arm unbearably gentle beneath Zolf’s fingers. 

“I, uhhh,” Oscar says intelligently. Zolf holds his gaze as he runs his thumb up and down the crease in Oscar’s sleeve, skimming feather-light over the fabric. Oscar’s hands tingle with the memory of that warm, rough palm, those strong fingers, and he shivers with the urge to press closer. He swallows down a whimper, imagining Zolf gripping his arms tight enough to bruise, holding him down as he fucks him into the mattress, and suddenly his jeans are very, very tight. “Uhhhm.” Oscar’s face burns as he shuffles his feet, trying to ease the pressure in his jeans. “M-maybe.”

“Hmmm.” Zolf drops his gaze to Oscar’s crotch with a satisfied little smirk, and Oscar has never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. “Alright. I’ll humour you. Widen your stance.” He steps behind Oscar and kicks his legs apart, then slides a hand down the back of Oscar’s right thigh. “And step your right foot forward.” 

Oscar’s breath catches as Zolf slips his hands beneath the apron to rest on his waist. “Alright, Oscar?” Zolf asks, and Oscar can hear the smile in his voice.

Jesus. Zolf’s hands burn through the thin cotton of his shirt, and Oscar chokes back a moan as Zolf rubs his thumbs over his hips in slow, deliberate circles. “More than alright.”

“Good. Now shift your weight from one leg to the other to match the movement of your arms.” He pushes Oscar forwards and pulls him back as he works the dough. “There you go. Use your core.” He guides Oscar through a few more motions. “You’re doin’ great.”

“Really?” Oscar asks breathlessly.

“Yeah.” Zolf moves his hands to rest on the small of Oscar’s back. “Keep goin’. Not much longer now. Challah doesn’t need too much kneading.”

Oscar can barely think through the warmth of Zolf’s hands on his body, and he scrambles to come up with a decent kneading pun. Fuck. “I’d say—”

Zolf shushes him as he wraps his arms around Oscar’s waist, and Oscar freezes. “I humoured you, now humour me,” Zolf says quietly. “Just be yourself tonight. No need to put on a show.” 

“Alright.” Oscar takes a deep breath and continues to knead the dough. “If I’m good, will you let me kiss you?”

Zolf chuckles as he rests his forehead against Oscar’s back. “We’ll see.”

While they wait for the challah to rise, Zolf prepares a few sponges to ferment overnight, then finishes cleaning up the café. It’s warm and cozy inside Coriander, and the only sound is the steady thrum of the rain and the scratch of Oscar’s pen as he writes in his notebook. Zolf finds himself enjoying this quiet time with Oscar, each of them focused on their own work. They’ve gotten used to sitting in silence together over the past few weeks, and it feels...comfortable. Companionable. Domestic, a traitorous part of his mind supplies. 

Zolf checks the time. “We’ve got to plait the challah,” he calls out, pulling the dough out of the proofing cabinet. “Come and help.” 

Oscar sets his pen aside and heads behind the counter to wash his hands, still wearing Zolf’s apron. Despite barely reaching his thighs, the apron engulfs his slender frame, puffing awkwardly over the ties cinched around his waist. He looks ridiculous, with flour smudged in his hair and all over his jeans, and Zolf realises he’s been grinning at Oscar for just a little too long.

Oscar catches Zolf staring as he dries his hands, and a soft, delighted smile spreads over his face. “Zolf, I—” 

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Zolf cuts in, winding his arm around Oscar’s waist and pulling him over to the counter. Oscar lets out a surprised little huff, which Zolf absolutely does not find adorable in the slightest. “D’you know how to plait?”

Oscar casually drapes an arm over Zolf’s shoulders. “Not at all,” he replies, sounding chuffed with himself.  

“We’ll just do a classic plait, then.” Zolf releases Oscar’s waist so he can divide the dough into three equal sections and shows him how to roll out the strands. He sighs good-naturedly as Oscar fusses with the dough and willfully misunderstands Zolf’s plaiting instructions, making some awful pun about how if he can’t get under Zolf, he may as well get over him. Zolf knew Oscar would be a terrible student, but he’s being so fussy and silly and quintessentially Oscar that Zolf can’t help but laugh.

Once the challah is back in the proving cabinet for its final rise, Oscar returns to his table to continue writing. Zolf wanders over to the fridge and peers inside, surveying their options for dinner. “I’m sure you’re ‘not hungry’ or whatever, but eventually we need to eat,” he calls out.

“I’ll eat anything you cook, Zolf,” Oscar calls back. “Anything at all.”

Something to go with the challah. “Do you like eggs?” 

“Sure,” Oscar replies absently. 

Zolf glances over and notices Oscar hasn’t looked up from his notebook. “How does shakshuka sound?”

“I have absolutely no idea what shakshuka is, but if it’s something you make I’m sure it’ll be delicious.” Oscar looks over at Zolf and smiles. “You don’t need to ask, Zolf. I meant it when I said I’ll eat anything you cook. I trust your taste in food far more than my own. I eat microwavable dinners on a regular basis, for goodness sake.” 

“Alright,” Zolf says with a smile. “Shakshuka it is.” 

Shakshuka, as it turns out, is delicious, and challah is even better. Oscar slathers a hunk of fluffy challah with bright, spicy sauce and crams it into his mouth. “So good,” he sighs. He wipes his mouth and attacks an egg, the soft, creamy yolk perfectly complementing the rich sauce and fresh coriander. “How do you do this?” 

Zolf shrugs as he takes a bite of challah. “Practice?” 

“I love it,” Oscar declares, swiping another slice of challah off the cutting board. “I don’t know how I lived without shakshuka before today.”

“I’ll give you my recipe,” Zolf says mildly. “It’s very simple. You make it usin’ mostly pantry ingredients.”

Oscar shakes his head as he scoops more shakshuka onto his plate. “That’s very kind of you, but you’re grossly overestimating my cooking abilities. My pantry contains a two-year-old bag of crisps and twenty bottles of red wine.” 

“God.” Zolf laughs. “That’s terrible.” 

“How do you think I maintain my svelte figure? Or used to, anyhow. I swear I’ve put on weight since you started force-feeding me these exquisite meals.”

“It suits you,” Zolf blurts out. 

Oscar beams as Zolf flushes a violent shade of crimson and chugs a glass of water. He reclines back in his chair to show off his body to its best advantage, resting his arms behind his head and crossing his legs. “You really think so?” 

“You were—you’re still too thin,” Zolf stammers, wiping his mouth.

“Well.” Oscar tears off a piece of challah and dunks it into the sauce. “All the more reason for you to keep cooking for me, I suppose.”

After dinner, they sit on the sofa in the corner of the café while Zolf listens to Oscar chatter about Bad Sons. Oscar has changed back into his waistcoat and dusted the flour off his jeans and out of his hair, and part of Zolf wishes Oscar hadn’t bothered cleaning himself up. He looks too perfect, too posh, too buttoned-up and sharp.

I liked you better before. Oscar had looked disheveled and soft. Relaxed. Touchable. But even more than that, he’d been charming and silly and warm, and Zolf realises he doesn’t want tonight to end. 

Before he can overthink anything, Zolf stands up and steps between Oscar’s thighs. 

“Oh.” Oscar flushes a lovely shade of pink. “Hello.”

“Hey.” Zolf sketches his fingertips over the contours of Oscar’s face, mapping his sharp cheekbones, the fine angles of his jaw. I know how badly you want this. He strokes Oscar’s lips with his thumb, enjoying the way Oscar shivers against his touch. You’ll take anything I give you and thank me for it.  

Oscar swallows hard. “I’d really like to kiss you right now,” he whispers. 

“I know.” Zolf wraps his arm around Oscar’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Alright if I kiss you instead?” 

“God, yes.” Oscar’s eyes flutter shut. “Please.”

It’s intoxicating, having this kind of power over someone as brash and beautiful as Oscar, and Zolf smiles to himself as he tips Oscar’s chin up and kisses him gently. He lets Oscar clutch at his neck, but as soon as Oscar tries to press closer, Zolf pulls back and shakes his head. “On my terms, or not at all.” 

Oscar nods, his hands hovering anxiously over Zolf’s shoulders. Zolf makes Oscar wait for a few more seconds before guiding his arms to wrap around his waist. “I like you like this,” Zolf says, smoothing Oscar’s hair behind his ears. “Quiet and eager to please. Keep behavin’ yourself and maybe I’ll kiss you again.”

Oscar goes very still. “Good. I knew you could be good for me.” Zolf kisses Oscar’s forehead, then frames Oscar’s face with his hands and kisses him softly on the lips. “This isn’t enough for you, is it?” 

Oscar twists his hands in Zolf’s jumper as he shakes his head. 

“I know what you want,” Zolf murmurs against Oscar’s lips. “You want me to strip off your ridiculous waistcoat, those expensive jeans, your perfectly ironed shirt, and lay you out on the floor of my café, naked and exposed, so everyone can see how hard and aching and desperate you are for me.” 

Oscar sucks in a ragged breath as Zolf kisses a line down his throat, the cords of his neck straining under Zolf’s hands. “You want me to bend you over the table where you write every day and fuck you open with my fingers.” Zolf strokes Oscar’s hair and feels him swallow against his lips. “You want to kneel behind the counter and suck me off while I sit at the till, both hands gripping your hair tight as I fuck into your pretty mouth.” 

Oscar whimpers helplessly. “Am I right?” Zolf asks, kissing Oscar on the cheek. “Is that what you want?” 

Oscar nods as he searches Zolf’s face with wide, dark eyes. He’s so lovely and delicate, with his flushed cheeks, his softly parted lips, and Zolf wants to tear him apart.  

“So good for me.” Zolf cradles the back of Oscar’s neck. “You’re doin’ so well.” He kisses him, slipping his tongue between Oscar’s lips. Oscar tastes faintly of shakshuka and fresh coriander, and Zolf deepens the kiss, savouring the heady flavour of his cooking in Oscar’s mouth.    

Oscar moans and arches against him, moving his hands up to grasp at Zolf’s hair. Zolf breaks the kiss with a sigh and rests his hand at the base of Oscar’s throat, shoving him back into the sofa. 

“You can’t help yourself, can you? Chasin’ what you want.” Zolf leans forward, spreading Oscar’s legs with his knee and brushing his lips against his ear. “I bet you got whatever you wanted in London. Pretty thing that you are, flitting from party to party, dazzling society with your clever tongue.” He slides his thigh between Oscar’s legs, grinning when he feels the hard length of Oscar’s cock straining against his jeans. “But you’re not in London anymore. Did you really think that any of the little tricks you used to seduce the men back home would impress me?”

“No. Yes.” Oscar’s breath flickers against his neck, warm and tremulous. “I don’t know.” 

Zolf grinds his thigh against Oscar’s cock. “Tell me what you want.” 

“You,” Oscar gasps. 

“That’s what I thought.” Zolf kisses Oscar, dragging his tongue roughly over his teeth, then pulls back. He tilts his head, listening. “You know, I think it’s finally stopped raining.”

“What?” Oscar blinks up at him, confused.

Zolf straightens and regards Oscar appreciatively, taking in his swollen lips, the bulge in his jeans. “Time for you to head home.”

“Oh. Uhm. Alright.” Oscar fumbles to fix his hair and adjust his jeans, and he looks so soft and vulnerable that Zolf almost asks him if he’d rather stay. 

Almost. 

Instead, Zolf scoops up Oscar’s coat and offers it to him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Oscar pulls on his coat and shoulders his bag, still a little dazed. “Yes, of course. I—” He reaches for Zolf and hesitates. 

Zolf catches Oscar’s wrist and pulls him down to his level. “I had a nice time tonight.” 

Oscar smiles, shy and pleased. “Me too.” He cups Zolf’s cheek and leans in close. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Maybe—” Zolf shoves Oscar back “—if you finish another chapter.” 

Oscar laughs as he stumbles back, catching himself on a table. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and lets himself out of the café.

As he walks back to the cottage, Oscar pulls out his phone and calls Marie. “Hello, Oscar,” she says. “What’s Zolf up to these days?” 

“I’m in love with him.” 

“Oh, Oscar.” Marie sighs. “Did he kiss you goodnight and send you home without sleeping with you?”

“He’s perfect.” Oscar kicks a loose rock down the road and grins loopily. “I’m in love with him.”

“Like you were in love with Hamid,” Marie says dryly. “Speaking of which, how is Bad Sons coming along?”

“I’ve got about 30,000 words, but you know how I write. They’re all over the place, narratively speaking.” Oscar rakes a hand through his hair. “Do you think he knows?”

“Knows what? That you’re allegedly in love with him, or that Isaac is a thinly-veiled version of him that’s in love with a thinly-veiled version of you?”

“Oh, he definitely knows that I’m in love with him.” There’s a warm rush in Oscar’s belly as he remembers the scratch of Zolf’s beard against his cheeks, the low rumble of his voice. I know what you want. “But I want to push back on this idea that Isaac is Zolf and I’m Shane. On an aesthetic level, yes, I’m the tall, sunny, dark-haired one, and he’s the short, grumpy, light-haired one. But I’m the one that’s emotionally available! I’m the one swooning while I watch him work! I’m the one that’s in love!” 

“Don’t be so dramatic. You are not in love.”

“I am absolutely in love!”

“Please, if that were true, you’d never tell me about it. Hold on.” There’s a rustle as Marie covers the microphone.   

“Is that Eldarion?” Oscar asks. “Tell her I’m in love with Zolf.”

Marie uncovers the microphone. “Oscar wants you to know he’s in love with Zolf. No, the dwarf with all the tattoos who runs Coriander. The one with the tiny pencil and the massive hands.” Oscar grins when he hears Eldarion’s throaty laugh. “Eldarion says she trusts Zolf will ‘jilt you creditably.’”

“Tell her that ‘a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions.’”

“I will do no such thing,” Marie replies crisply. “If you two want to quote Austen at each other, do it on your own time.” 

“Look, this is your fault, Marie. You set me up.”

“Yes,” Marie says, sounding all too pleased with herself. “And now you have 30,000 words to show for it.”

Chapter Text

Oscar waltzes into Coriander well past noon the following day, brandishing the next installment of Bad Sons. “Good morning!”

“Mornin’,” Zolf says, setting aside With the Passion of the Sun. “Busy night?”

“Maybe not in the way I initially hoped, but it was certainly productive.” Oscar passes him the draft and leans in close, smiling so wide that Zolf can’t help but smile back. “Can I kiss you now?”

If Zolf took Oscar’s face in his hands, his thumbs would fit perfectly against the curve of the lines creasing his cheeks. “Depends.” Zolf surreptitiously flexes his fingers under the counter as he slides off his stool to go fetch Oscar’s croissant. “I’ve got to read the chapter first.”

Oscar rests his chin on his hand, still beaming. “But you said—”

“It’s not up for negotiation, love.” Zolf slides the croissant across the counter. “My terms. Or not at all.” 

“Alright, darling.” Zolf bristles a little at the endearment, but Oscar’s eyes sparkle so warmly that he swallows down his retort and starts fussing with the espresso machine. “I’ll be good.” 

The latest manuscript of Bad Sons sits unread by the till, calling out for Zolf’s attention. He can barely focus on his favourite novel, let alone customers’ orders, and he finds himself asking a woman to repeat her order for a cappuccino and a baguette three times before he gets it right. 

On my terms, or not at all. Zolf burns a half hour making the Cornish saffron buns that Azu loves, allowing the frustration of hand-kneading sticky enriched dough to crowd out any other thought in his head. He slides the shaped buns into the proving cabinet, then resumes his post at the till, reading and rereading the same page of With the Passion of the Sun until Oscar orders a macchiato. Zolf watches Oscar over the edge of his book, waiting for him to settle into the flow of his writing. Only when Oscar’s hair starts falling in his eyes does Zolf dig a pencil out of the till, retrieve the draft of Bad Sons, and start to read.

The next morning, I woke up to find Shane artlessly sprawled across my bed. The memory of last night rushed through me, and I bit my lip to muffle a groan. I’d forgotten to put the wash in the dryer, and a dull ache pounded at my temples. Cup of tea, I thought, and carefully levered myself out of bed. 

I chucked Shane’s clothes and the sheets into the dryer, then forced myself to drink a glass of water as I brewed a cup of tea. I opened up the pantry, surveying our options for breakfast. Something appetizing and filling, but not too heavy. My eyes fell on a can of navy beans. Beans on toast.  

I collected what I needed from the pantry, setting out the ingredients on the counter for soda bread. I’d made the recipe so many times I could do it in my sleep, but my mother always made me line up the ingredients before we started baking, and it felt wrong to do it any other way. 

Tia’s door opened, and someone padded softly down the hall. I caught a glimpse of Cat’s pale face, her eyeliner still impossibly immaculate. She wore one of Tia’s shirts, which hung down nearly to her knees, and was hugging a pile of studded leather to her chest. 

“Morning,” I said with a smile. “You’re up early.”

Cat nodded stoically as she slipped into the bathroom. “Always am.”  

As I was kneading the bread dough, Tia waltzed into the living room with a yoga mat under her arm. “So, Isaac.” She smiled at me as she rolled out the mat, and her eyes were far too soft and sympathetic for my liking. “Is Shane another of your strays?”

“Come on, Tia.” I scoffed. “Is Cat gonna be our new flatmate?”

“Might be. Don’t evade the question.” Grizzop skulked over to investigate the yoga mat, and Tia scooped the cat up in her arms. He yowled furiously as she kissed his tiny grey head. “Is our darling Grizzop going to get a new friend?”

“For goodness sake, put him down!” I hissed. “You know how much he hates being picked up.”

“But he’s so little and sweet!” Tia scritched Grizzop’s ears before setting him down, and he darted under the sofa. “So tell me. Is Shane one of your strays?”

“What? No.” I frowned at Tia as I continued working the dough. “I invited him over last night because I wanted to get off with him.”

Tia arched an eyebrow as she started going through her sun salutations. “Did you?”

“Obviously not! He was drunk and covered in vomit.”

Tia looked pointedly at the door to my room. “And he’s still here.” 

“Well, he’s sleeping.”

Tia flicked her eyes to the bread dough, then up to my face. “And you’re baking bread.” 

“We’re out of bread!”

Tia gave me a coy little smile as she stepped into a lunge. “You’re going to make baked beans.” 

“Well, I…” I sighed. “I don’t know, Tia. What d’you want me to say?”

“Look, Shane is certainly a very attractive stray. I’m just—Cat was telling me that Shane has quite the reputation. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I just worry about you.”

“I’m allowed to get off with a cute guy and cook him breakfast!”

“Sure, but you didn’t get off with him.” Tia arched into downward-facing dog and frowned at me. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that message from your mum, does it?” 

The week before, my mother had messaged me asking for money to repair their tractor. It’d been one of the reasons I’d ended up taking the job at Other London. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, the last time your mum asked you for money, you started sleeping with that absolute mess, Carter.” Carter had been a very unpredictable, very attractive archaeology student I’d slept with for a few months, until I discovered him trying to steal some of Tia’s jewelry. “And the time before that, you brought Grizzop back to the flat.”

I plopped the dough into a bowl and covered it with a tea towel. “Get to the point, Tia.”

“It’s not your responsibility to take care of everybody, you know. Family obligations should run both ways.” Tia’s voice strained slightly as she moved through her vinyasa and pressed back into downward-facing dog. “I know my parents could use more money, but they don’t ask me to get a second job.”

“My mum didn’t ask me to get a second job.”

“No, but that’s what happened anyways.” Tia shrugged as she stepped into her second lunge. “You know you’re a good person even if you don’t give your mum money or cook Shane breakfast, right?”

“It’s not just for Shane,” I said lamely. 

Tia smiled as she continued her sun salutations. “You’re a good person even if you don’t cook breakfast for me and Cat, too, but I appreciate you for it all the same.”  

---

Shane stumbled into the kitchen as Tia, Cat, and I were finishing up our breakfast. “Good morning!” Tia said brightly.

Shane winced and rubbed his eyes. “Good morning.”

I smiled at him. “Alright, Shane?” 

Shane hauled himself up onto the counter beside Cat. “Been better.” 

“So what was last night all about?” Cat narrowed her eyes. “You speak with your mum again?”

“Yes, Cat,” Shane said tersely.

Cat snorted. “Dunno why you pick up when she calls, mate. She’s a right bitch.” 

“Cat,” Tia gasped, scandalised.

“No, no, Cat’s right, my mum is a right bitch. But then again, so am I.” Shane sighed and stretched. “She didn’t call. I called her, like an absolute idiot.” 

Tia frowned at him. “Everything alright?” 

“Oh, she’s just still upset that I dropped out of school.” Shane rolled his eyes. “Thinks I’m ‘wasting my potential,’ and all that.” 

“Does she have a problem with you doing drag?” I asked.

“Not per se. It’s not the medium so much as the stage. My mother’s a concert pianist, you see. Wanted me to follow in her footsteps, or perform on the West End.” Shane waved a hand dismissively. “You know, something respectable. Nightclubs are so gauche.”

“Well, she’s an idiot.” Cat blew her fringe out of her eyes and glared at Shane. “Why’d you call her, anyways?”

“I thought I’d tell her about the gig at Gragg’s.” Cat groaned, and Shane shoved her playfully. “Hush, you. It’s a good gig.”

“What’s your problem with Gragg’s?” I asked.

Cat set down her plate and regarded me with sharp eyes. “Gragg’s is everything I hate about the London queer community.” 

I raised my eyebrows. “I mean, Gragg’s is an institution.”

“No, Gragg’s is respectability politics,” Cat sneered.

“Gragg’s pays its staff better than almost any other gay bar in London,” I replied, crossing my arms. “Not all of us can afford to be punk, Cat.”

The corner of Cat’s mouth quirked up, and she nodded at me. “Yeah, alright. But tell me, where are the drag kings at Gragg’s?”

I shrugged. “That’s fair. But drag kings don’t bring in clients.”

“And therefore have no artistic value, apparently. Drag shouldn’t be about profit.” Cat smirked wickedly at Shane. “Anyways, this slag will bring in more clients that you’ll know what to do with as soon as she spreads her legs.”

Don’t talk to her like that, I almost snapped, and a dull ache settled heavily in my gut as Shane beamed at Cat. “You know me so well,” he said blissfully. 

I walked up to Shane and rested a hand on his arm, frowning. “You should eat something.” 

Shane grimaced and hopped off the counter, slipping out of my reach. “Have you got any coffee?” 

“Sure, but you’ve got to eat,” I insisted, chasing him across the kitchen. 

Tia glanced at me before walking over to Cat and whispering something in her ear. A warm flush stained Cat’s cheeks as she let Tia take her hand and pull her off the counter. “We’ll leave you to it,” Tia said, shooting me a knowing look. 

I nodded at Tia, then turned back to face Shane. He was draped carelessly against the sink, but he watched me closely, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ve already got a mum, Isaac,” he said lightly. “And I don’t care very much for her.”

“Bloody hell, Shane, I don’t care much for my mum either,” I snapped, glaring up at him. “I’m not trying to get you back in school. I just happen to know that you’ll feel better if you eat something.”

“Darling, I’m so glad you’re in medical school. You have the most remarkable bedside manner.” Shane smiled as he pulled me against him and caressed my clenched jaw. “Look how angry you are! You’re positively livid! Has anyone ever told you how good you look when you’re angry?”

I caught his hand and yanked it off my face, still glaring. “No.”

Shane laughed warmly, and my anger melted away as he bent down and brushed his lips against my ear. “If I eat breakfast,” he whispered, “will you let me suck you off?”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Yeah, alright.” 

---

I didn’t hear from Shane until he texted me the following Thursday. 

come over and sit on my face, and i’ll show you how to line your eyes before your shift at other london tonight

lol, sure. give me an hour or so.

When I reached Shane’s building, I rang his buzzer and got no response, then called him repeatedly for fifteen minutes without getting through. Just as I was about to give up and head home, another resident left the building and I was able to catch the door. 

It was becoming unavoidably clear that Shane was a ride in every sense of the word, one threatening to derail at any moment. But as I mounted the stairs to his flat, the sound of someone playing a piano trailed down the hall. I felt my irritation give way to that bright, effortless swell of music, all the magic and mystery of London rushing through me even in this unassuming building out on the edge of town. Shane was brilliant and beautiful with potential, even as he stumbled into my flat drunk in the middle of the night and stood me up outside his building. And in the final summer before the start of my clinical training, I was hungry for the thrill of possibilities extending far beyond my family’s farm, my parent’s dull, ceaseless expectation that I would someday set aside my books and pick up my responsibility to their fading legacy. 

I paused when I reached Shane’s flat, just to listen to him play the piano for a little longer. With that ethereal music resonating through the door, I felt as though I stood before the portal to some extraordinary world, and I smiled to myself when I finally knocked.

The music abruptly stopped, and I heard Shane swear and trip over something as he stumbled across his flat. He answered the door wearing a blue satin robe and running his fingers through his disheveled curls. “Everything alright?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “I called you about a hundred times.”  

“I’m so, so sorry.” Shane smiled apologetically as he pulled me inside. “I completely lost track of time.” 

I glanced at his upright piano. There was sheet music strewn over the cabinet and a notebook propped up on the stand. “Were you playing the piano?” 

Shane leaned down to kiss me, crowding me against the door. “Just messing around.”

It hadn’t sounded like he was messing around. I’d never heard anyone play music like that, not in person. “Would you play something for me?”

“I’d love to.” Shane kissed me again before leading me towards the mattress. “What’s your favourite musical?” He wrinkled his nose as he sat down at the piano, adjusting his robe around him. “Please, for the love of god, no Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

I laughed as I pushed a pile of clothes off the mattress and sat down. “Well, if I can’t say Cats…” If I was being honest, I would’ve said The Wizard of Oz. But I wanted to impress Shane by choosing something more sophisticated, more him. “I guess it’d have to be Cabaret.” 

“Mmmm.” Shane smiled at me approvingly as he started playing the opening chords of “Maybe This Time.” “Brilliant choice. Don’t you think I’d make a fabulous Sally Bowles?”

He would make a fabulous Sally Bowles, all long legs and coltish verve. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask. Let’s take this down.” Shane changed to a lower key and took a deep breath. “Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky. Maybe this time, he’ll stay…”

Shane had a vivid, incandescent voice, and it was remarkable watching him perform up close, to witness how the music animated his face and possessed his body. He tipped his head back as he belted the soaring climax of the song, the chords of his neck straining with the effort, and as he ended the song with a little flourish over the piano keys, I went to him and wrapped my arms around his chest.

“Amazing,” I breathed. 

Shane leaned against my shoulder as I kissed his temple. “You really think so?”

“I’ve never seen anyone sing like you.” I kissed down his neck, sliding my hands inside his robe. “Well. Maybe Judy Garland in A Star Is Born.”

Shane let out a breathy laugh. “An acceptable comparison.”

“That’s what I thought when I first saw you perform, you know.” I kissed him, gentle and lingering. “You sing like Judy Garland.”  

Shane pulled his head back, making me reach for his lips. “Is that all you thought?”

I took Shane by the back of his neck and leaned in to deepen the kiss. “I thought, this is why I moved to London. Nothing like you back home in Hildreth.” 

Shane smiled against my lips. “Nothing like what?” 

“Come to bed and I’ll tell you.” I took his hand and tugged him down onto the mattress. He tumbled on top of me, laughing. 

“You incorrigible tease.” Shane straddled my waist and untied his robe. “You know I’ll do anything for praise.”

“You are extraordinary, Shane.” I slipped the robe off his shoulders, and it pooled on the mattress in a rush of satin. “I don’t understand you. How is it possible for one person to be so talented?” 

Shane ducked his head and pressed his face into my neck. “You’re really lovely, Isaac.” 

I rolled over him, pinning him against the bed. “Have I embarrassed you, Shane MacKenna?”

“No,” he mumbled as his ears turned bright pink. “Maybe.”

I cupped his jaw and gently prised him away from my neck, and Shane smiled sheepishly up at me as a warm flush bloomed over his face. I’d never made him blush before, and I wanted to do it again and again and again. “You absolute beauty.” I kissed Shane fiercely, and he melted beneath me. “I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”

“Don’t stop,” Shane sighed as I slid my hand down his stomach.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” I rested my head against his chest, right over his pounding heart. “I want to give you everything.”

Shane twisted his fingers in my hair. “Isaac, please.”

“Anything you want, love.” Shane moaned as I wrapped my hand around him. “Anything at all.”

---

Afterwards, when we were lying in the damp sheets, Shane turned to look at me. “Can I show you something?”

“Sure.”

Shane slipped out of bed and shrugged his robe back on, then sat back down at the piano. “I’ve been thinking about maybe performing some of my own music at Gragg’s.”

I rolled onto my side to look up at him. “I didn’t know you were a songwriter.”

“When I was still in school, I was studying composition as well as performance. But the kind of music I write, well, I suppose it’s a bit old-fashioned. And, you know, when it comes to that kind of music at a drag show, you can get away with a torch song—I mean, everyone is always after me to sing Adele—but I prefer music that’s more character-driven, if you will, like I absolutely adore a good eleven o’clock number, and that’s not necessarily a crowd pleaser at the nightclub.” 

Shane ran his fingers restlessly over the piano keys, and I realised that this was the first time I’d ever seen him truly nervous. “Anyways, would you mind if I played you a song I’m writing? I’d love to hear any thoughts you might have. If you’re willing to give them, of course. I was thinking, well, you work in the drag scene, and you clearly appreciate a lot of my musical references, and as such I think your perspective would be incredibly valuable. Because I’d really like to sing it live someday. Maybe if Gragg’s casts me in a weeknight show, you know they’re more flexible during—”

Zolf glances over at Oscar, reminded of his surprising shyness the week before as he offered Zolf the first chapter of Bad Sons, babbling on and on when he could’ve just handed over the bloody manuscript and been done with it. Zolf had been under the impression that he’d embarrassed Oscar by giving him a free lunch. He hadn’t considered the possibility that someone as confident and sophisticated as Oscar might worry themselves over the opinion of some provincial café owner.

“Shane,” I cut in. “Play it for me. I’d love to hear it.” 

Shane’s smile lit up his face, and I felt the back of my neck prickle warmly. “I haven’t written the lyrics yet, so it’s just the melody, and the accompaniment.”

I sat up on the mattress, rubbing the back of my neck. “I don’t mind.”

Shane started to play, humming the melody as his long fingers danced over the piano keys. I could hear what he meant by old-fashioned—it had an easy, swaying rhythm, and the melody was too lyrical to be pure pop. There was something plaintive in the fall of the chords, the lilt of his voice. It sounded like a song Liza Minelli or Amy Winehouse might sing, someone unafraid to laugh at their own heartbreak.

When he finished, Shane turned to face me. “What do you think?” he asked, a little out of breath.

I grinned at him. “It’s brilliant. It kinda reminds me of ‘Wicked Little Town’ from Hedwig and the Angry Inch.”

“Oh my god, I love Hedwig,” Shane gushed. 

“Yeah, me too.” I leaned forward on my knees and tried to organise my thoughts into something halfway intelligent. “Your song has that, I dunno, mix of sadness and joy that Hedwig does so well. If that makes any kinda sense.”

Shane smiled back and nodded encouragingly. “No, that absolutely makes sense. That’s exactly what I was going for.” 

“But I...I mean, I’m not a musician, but I could hear what you meant by ‘old-fashioned.’”

Shane twisted his mouth apologetically. “I know, I know, it’s that theatre thing, I—”

“No, no, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, it reminded me a little of Amy Winehouse, too, and I love Amy Winehouse. But you might need more of a hook, maybe, to make the song more accessible.” 

Shane hummed thoughtfully and idly tinkled the piano keys. “That’s a fabulous suggestion. Something like this?” He played a bright, sweeping phrase that tugged insistently at my chest. 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure, that’s great.” I blinked up at him, a little taken aback by the speed of his response. “Did you come up with that just now?”

Shane nodded. “I’m just riffing off a popular chord progression, but it’s something to work with.” He played the phrase again, adding a little flourish at the end, and smirked wryly. “Oh, my mother would be so disgusted. All that classical training, just so I could write a catchy hook on the fly.” 

I laughed and settled back on my elbows. “So what’s the song about?”

“Well, there’s this line in The Tempest, ‘Good women sometimes give birth to bad sons.’ It’s sort of inspired by that.” Shane continued to play as he spoke, experimenting with the composition of the phrase. “And I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the particular confluence of diverse experiences within the queer community, how all these individuals from different backgrounds converge in queer spaces, then walk divergent paths in the ‘real world,’ so to speak. Basically, I want to write a song about what happens when two people subvert the expectations placed on them, but in very different ways, and then wind up meeting in the same place.”

Zolf’s pulse spikes, and his pencil freezes over the margin. Oh. 

Oh. I cocked my head, my heart thundering in my chest. “Who are the two people?”

Two bright spots appeared on Shane’s cheeks as he resolutely continued playing the piano. “No one in particular.” 

I stood up and rested my arms on his shoulders. “You idiot,” I said softly. “Tell me.”  

“Come on, Isaac. Don’t make me say it.” Shane’s hands stilled on the keys, and he turned to look up at me, smiling his brilliant smile. “You know who the two people are.”

Shit. Zolf sets down the manuscript, feeling ridiculous and more than a little annoyed, and glares at Oscar, who continues scribbling in his notebook. You smug, insufferable bastard. Zolf walks out from behind the counter, quietly locking the door and flipping the sign to “Closed.” 

Oscar idly tucks his hair behind his ear, blissfully unaware of Zolf until he grabs Oscar’s precarious bun and roughly tugs off the elastic. “Ohmygod.” Oscar jolts upright, and Zolf grips his hair tight, yanking his head back.

“Hey.” Zolf wraps the elastic around his wrist and combs his fingers through Oscar’s hair, smoothing it behind his shoulders. “Just finished reading your draft.”

Oscar grins as Zolf removes his glasses and sets them aside. “Did you now?”

“Yeah. It’s good, but I have some notes.” Zolf loosens Oscar’s tie and yanks it over his head, then unbuttons the top of his shirt. “Let’s just say some of it felt a bit familiar.”

“Is that a problem?” Oscar asks, looking delighted with himself.

“Nope.” Zolf slides a hand inside Oscar’s shirt, and Oscar gasps. There we go. “But something was missing.”

“Oh.” Oscar’s breath catches as Zolf brushes their lips together. “Can I—can I kiss you?”

“Nahh. I thought the new stuff had plenty of kissing.” Zolf slips his other hand between Oscar’s legs, smoothing up and down his inner thigh. “Alright if I touch you?”

“Fuck,” Oscar moans, nestling his face in the crook of Zolf’s neck as Zolf leans over his shoulder. “Yes, please.”

“Unbutton your shirt and waistcoat.” Oscar fumbles to comply as Zolf strokes Oscar’s cock until it strains against the tight denim. “Good. Now open up your jeans for me.”

Oscar unzips his jeans and pulls out his cock, his breath hot and humid against Zolf’s neck. Zolf fists a hand in Oscar’s hair and yanks his head back, and Oscar gulps as he looks up at Zolf, his eyes soft and hazy. 

“Look at you.” Zolf peels open Oscar’s shirt and runs his hands down his chest and belly. “Look at how you want it, so needy that you’ll pull out your cock for me in the middle of my café.” He kisses Oscar gently, tracing his lips with his tongue. 

When Oscar reaches up as if to touch Zolf’s face, Zolf takes Oscar’s hands and presses them against his thighs. “Hands to yourself, love.” Zolf wraps his hand around Oscar’s cock, grinning when Oscar claws at his jeans and lets out a keening whine. “You look so good like this, all exposed for me. Don’t want you covering anything up.”

Zolf begins stroking Oscar’s cock, rough and fast. “You want me to tell you you’re amazing? That you’re extraordinary? That I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone? Not gonna happen.” 

Oscar moans and drops his head against Zolf’s shoulder, and Zolf tightens his grip on Oscar’s cock. “You’re just another pretty little entitled city boy,” Zolf growls in his ear. “You know how many boys like you waltz into Coriander every year and try it on with me? The only thing that sets you apart is how desperate you are. You want me to touch you so badly that you’ll do anything for me. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Oscar breathes. “Anything at all.”

“Good.” Zolf smooths his free hand over Oscar’s flushed throat. “Now you’re gonna come for me, like a good boy, come all over yourself, even though you hate it when you’re sticky and wet, don’t you? But that’s how I like you, Oscar, messy and desperate and helpless, so you’re gonna come for me, right here, in the middle of my café where anyone could see you.”

“Zolf,” Oscar cries, squeezing his eyes shut. Zolf cradles the back of Oscar’s head and kisses him, leaning down to deepen the kiss as Oscar comes, spilling all over his stomach. Oscar trembles as he struggles to keep still, and when he finally whimpers with overstimulation, Zolf drags his palm through the warm puddle of come, smearing a long, sticky streak all the way up Oscar’s body. 

“So good for me,” Zolf murmurs, wiping his hand on Oscar’s chest. “Just sit tight for a minute, let me fix your hair.” Oscar slumps back against his chair, boneless and smeared with come, as Zolf carefully plaits his hair into a neat French braid and secures it with the elastic. “There you go. Now go clean yourself up, and I’ll make you a cortado, and then you’re gonna eat your lunch while we talk about your novel.”  

As Zolf starts walking away, Oscar catches his arm and pulls him back. Oscar looks different with his hair plaited away from his face—more mature, less impish—and he gives Zolf a warm, intimate smile as he tugs him close. “I’m mad about you,” Oscar says softly. “I think you’re brilliant.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Zolf leans down to kiss him, and Oscar tips his head back like an eager puppy. So easy to please. Zolf takes Oscar’s hand and appraises him. He looks utterly debauched and incandescently happy, and Zolf wonders what he could do to Oscar if he really took his time. 

“Come on,” Zolf says, tugging Oscar out of his chair. “I can clean you up in the kitchen.”

Oscar stumbles behind Zolf as he leads him to the kitchen sink, still a little dazed. Zolf switches on the tap and waits until the water starts to steam before wetting a flannel. “Come here,” he says, hauling himself up on the counter and pulling Oscar between his legs. Zolf rests a hand against the small of Oscar’s back as he smooths the warm flannel over Oscar’s chest and stomach. “You’re a mess, love.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Oscar says, preening under Zolf’s attentions, “but you really don’t care if someone walks in?” Zolf smirks and nods at the door, and Oscar looks over to see the sign switched to “closed.” Oscar laughs and slumps forward, resting his forehead on Zolf’s shoulder. “You are such an ass! I was so—”

“No, you weren’t.” Zolf chucks the flannel in the sink and wipes his hands on his apron. “You loved it.”

“I loved it,” Oscar concedes, draping his arms over Zolf’s shoulders. “Something for you?”

Zolf shakes his head as he slips his hands inside Oscar’s open shirt, stroking up and down his back. “Just this.” He brushes his fingers over the arch of Oscar’s shoulder blades, the ridges of his ribs. 

You’re a cuddler, Oscar realises with delight. He nestles closer, burying his face in Zolf’s neck and breathing him in. He smells delicious —the rich aroma of coffee, layered beneath a spicy, green scent that makes his mouth water. “What is this?” 

“Hmmm?”

“What do you smell like?” 

Zolf tugs the neck of his t-shirt up to his nose and takes a whiff. “Oh. Cumin and coriander. Sorry, I was cooking earlier.”

“So good,” Oscar mumbles, inhaling deeply. He wants to wrap himself up in that scent for the rest of his life. “Can I kiss you?”  

“So needy." Zolf gently pulls Oscar off his neck. “You don’t give up, do you?”

Zolf’s eyes are sharp and thoughtful as he searches Oscar’s face, and Oscar’s cheeks burn under the intensity of his gaze. He ducks his head and smiles, feeling unbearably young for the first time in years. “Not when it’s worth my while.” 

Zolf takes Oscar by the chin, resting his thumb at the corner of Oscar’s lips as he tilts his head up. “I love Judy Garland.” He kisses Oscar, slow and soft, pulling back when Oscar tries to press closer. Oscar sways forward, so weak for this gruff, stubborn dwarf that he can barely stay on his feet, and Zolf laughs as he catches Oscar by the shoulders. “How did you know?”

Oscar shivers as Zolf kisses his collarbone. From the way you silently brood behind the counter, that tight, stormy expression you wear right before you bake bread. Because you love romance novels, and you blush whenever I compliment you, and it took you far too long to realise you’re the hero of my love story. “Everyone loves Judy Garland.”

“Not like I do.” Zolf idly traces the lines along Oscar’s throat. “Did Azu tell you?”

“No,” Oscar says breathlessly. “Azu thinks it wouldn’t be romantic if she told me all your secrets.”

“Oh, Azu,” Zolf sighs. “She would say that.” He smooths his hands down Oscar’s stomach, then starts briskly buttoning up his shirt. “Well. I’ve got to get back to work.” 

“Not yet,” Oscar says plaintively, clutching at Zolf’s neck. Please, let me keep you. “Just a little longer.”

Zolf flicks his eyes up to meet Oscar’s gaze and shakes his head with a little half-smile. “You know the deal.”

“Fine.” Oscar sighs and impetuously steals a kiss on the cheek. “Can I order a cortado?”

“Yeah, alright.” Zolf hops off the counter and goes to unlock the front door. “Oh, and it’s pav bhaji for lunch today. You can, uh—” he points at the second chair beside the till “—you can eat behind the counter, if you like. So we can, uh, talk about your novel.”

Oscar freezes, halfway through tucking in his shirt. “Really?” 

“Yes, really,” Zolf huffs. “I just gave you a bloody hand job, for goodness sake.” Oscar bursts out laughing, and Zolf waves him off, scrubbing furiously at his neck. “Go get your notebook.”  

Chapter Text

Oscar settles in behind the counter with his plate of food, looking incredibly smug. He takes a bite of pav bhaji, and his eyes flutter shut as he moans. “What is this?”  

“Just a bunch of vegetables mashed together, with spices and such.” Zolf has been perfecting his pav bhaji recipe for years, and after Oscar’s reaction to the challah, he’d tried baking pav using an enriched dough. The rolls had turned out buttery and indulgent, a gorgeous base for the spicy curry. 

“Can I just—” Oscar takes another massive bite. “This is phenomenal.”

You like spicy food. Zolf smiles to himself as Oscar demolishes the pav bhaji. Especially vegetarian dishes. “Glad you like it.” 

“Outstanding.” Oscar picks up his cortado and leans back in his chair, sighing happily. “I love it here. I may never leave.”

Something flutters in Zolf’s stomach as he picks up Oscar’s empty plate and takes it to the sink. “Should we talk about your novel?”

“Yes, please.” Oscar flips open his notebook. “So. Now you know. Isaac is inspired by you. And, yes, certain aspects of Shane’s character are very loosely autobiographical.” Zolf rolls his eyes at that, and Oscar good-naturedly scowls at him. “But I want to make something clear. Bad Sons isn’t about us.”

“Clearly. Isaac is mad about Shane.”

“Well.” Oscar smirks slowly. “Sometimes life imitates art.”

Zolf snorts as he sits back down. “I doubt that very seriously.”  

“Of course you do,” Oscar says soothingly. “But I need you to understand that Bad Sons is fiction, and that you shouldn’t take it as a reflection of whatever this—” he gestures between them “—might be. Because I still don’t know if Isaac and Shane are going to end up together, and—” 

“It was a hand job, Oscar. Don’t let it get to your head.” Zolf crosses his arms and frowns. “And why wouldn’t they end up together? What’s the point of all the set-up? The—the chemistry, and the intimacy, and all these indications that Shane needs someone to care for him, and—”

“I’m not writing a romance novel,” Oscar says, resting his chin on his hand. “I did warn you, you know. And I think there’s a distinction between Isaac believing that Shane needs someone to care for him, however sincerely, and Shane actually needing someone to care for him.”

“He clearly needs someone to care for him! He won’t eat, and he’s painfully unorganized, and…” Oh. Zolf trails off as Oscar arches an eyebrow and grins. “I, uhm, sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, no, you’re alright. I assure you, any resemblance between us is absolutely intentional. I’m far more self-aware than I was when I was Shane’s age.” Oscar scribbles in his notebook. “But I wouldn’t be the person I am today without the choices I made when I was younger, and, I don’t know, I can’t bring myself to regret the way I lived my life. Do you think Shane should?”

“I, uhhh.” Zolf looks at his hands. “I don’t know if I should, uhm, comment on that.”

“You don’t have to, though I’d certainly love to hear your thoughts.” There’s a long pause, the silence of the café disturbed only by the soft scratch of Oscar’s pen on the page, and Zolf fights the urge to shuffle his feet. “Can I—would you mind if we discussed what I think Isaac needs?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I think he needs a family,” Oscar says softly. Zolf snaps his head up, his heart lurching painfully in his chest. “People who care for him as much as he cares for them. What do you think?”   

“I—” Zolf swallows hard and takes a deep breath, fighting to clear his mind of any thought of Feryn before he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Oscar frowns. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, sorry, just thought of something.” Zolf walks over to the soup kettle and picks up a wooden spoon. He breathes in the scent of the curry as he stirs, mentally listing the spices in the recipe until his heart rate slows. Ginger. Coriander. Cumin. Turmeric. Garam masala. Amchur. Chili powder. “Sorry. As you were.”

“Family takes a lot of different forms, you know.” Oscar’s gaze is sharp and steady as Zolf sits back down. “And Tia and Cat could be the family Isaac needs.”

“And Shane isn’t a part of that?” Zolf takes another deep breath and blinks at Oscar as he catches a warm, familiar scent layered beneath the sophisticated floral fragrances in his cologne. Cardamom.

“Frankly, I don’t think Shane deserves a place in Isaac’s family at the moment. ‘Family obligations should run both ways,’ as Tia rightly says. Shane is very selfish, and Isaac should be surrounded by people who appreciate his acts of service.”

“That doesn’t mean Isaac shouldn’t take care of Shane,” Zolf says sharply, shaking his head.    

Oscar regards him thoughtfully for a long moment before turning back to his notebook. “Oh, I don’t know if I agree with that. Isaac doesn’t owe Shane anything, and if Shane doesn’t want a family, he doesn’t have to have one. He doesn’t owe Isaac anything, either, and he’s well within his rights to put his own desires first, especially at his age.” 

“Well. I s’pose that’s true. But I…” I still want them to end up together. But this is supposed to be about helping Oscar find the story he’s trying to write. “I guess I don’t know where the novel will go next, then.”

Oscar smiles and nods. “I’m not sure, either. I’m intentionally trying to subvert certain romance tropes, and that makes storytelling less linear. But I’ll say that Bad Sons would be far less interesting if it was told from Shane’s perspective, because he very confidently believes that he and Isaac are just having a good time together, and…hmmm.” Oscar jots something down. “So Shane has been up front about the fact that he doesn’t want to be in a relationship. But do you think Isaac would expect Shane to come around?”

“Well, yeah.” Zolf shrugs. “That’s exactly what happened in Love in a Time of Hardship. Rory had been in love with Violet for years, but Violet didn’t think she wanted to be in a relationship until Rory got sick and she realised how much she had to lose.”

“But Rory and Violet had been friends for years before the start of Love in a Time of Hardship. What does Shane have to lose here?” 

“Someone who gives a shit. Who, y’know, listens to his music and looks after him when he’s sick and cooks him breakfast.” 

“Sure,” Oscar says carefully. “But Shane is still trying to get his life together. Remember that by the time the events of Love in a Time of Hardship start, Violet had already graduated from medical school and started her career.” Oscar pauses, then looks at Zolf expectantly. “And what if Shane was sleeping with other people? How would Isaac respond to that?”

“Are you sleeping with other people?” Zolf blurts out.

To Zolf’s horror, a delighted smile spreads across Oscar’s face. “Zolf, darling.” He leans in close, and Zolf’s face warms with the memory of Oscar’s lips brushing against his cheek. “Are you jealous?”  

“No!” Zolf rears back. “Absolutely not! I just thought, I don’t know, that question seemed very pointed!”

“So tell me.” Oscar toys with the end of his braid, preening. “How would you feel if I was sleeping with other people?”

Zolf holds up his hands. “Oscar, you can fuck every consenting adult in Wynsbury for all that I care.”

“Alright, if you say so.” Oscar shakes his head and laughs as he writes something in his notebook, then flicks his eyes up to meet Zolf’s gaze. “But just so you know, I’m not sleeping with other people.”

“Good for you,” Zolf grumbles, glowering out the window.

That night, Oscar emails Marie the draft of Bad Sons with a note. Zolf finally cracked the code. I need the opinion of an objective third party. She calls him an hour later, and Oscar steels himself for the worst as he answers the phone. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“Only a little,” Marie says smoothly. “You know you’re a better editor than you are a writer.” 

“I know, I know.” Oscar sighs and pulls out his notebook and pen. “What are your thoughts so far?”

“It’s a bit unfocused, thematically. And rather romance-forward, don’t you think? I understand that’s quite a marketable genre, but it’s hardly your brand. Or mine, for that matter.”

A bit romantic/off brand, Oscar writes. Lack of substance. “I may have gotten somewhat caught up in the romance to start —”

“Right, because you’re allegedly in love with Zolf.”

“Because Zolf is my muse, and he’s made it easy to write this soft, lovely fantasy. But while the love story may be what drives the narrative of Bad Sons, it’s ultimately not the theme of the novel.”

“Here’s what I have from the last time we spoke about this— ‘Some people are more than meets the eye. Finding the courage to live your life honestly. The intersection of trauma and liberation and self-expression.’ Has any of that changed?”

“Yes and no.” Cognitive dissonance, Oscar writes, thinking back to that first conversation. “I can’t help but think that if I had met Zolf when I was Shane’s age, I absolutely would’ve fucked him and moved on with my life. And I honestly think that would’ve been a fine thing for me to do at that time, even if that left a lovely man broken-hearted.” He flips to his notes from his conversation with Zolf. Shane is entitled to agency, doesn’t owe Isaac anything. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ve increasingly realised that that first theme, about people being more than meets the eye, is inextricably bound up in our own biases. And that the novel is about Isaac’s skewed perspective rather than Shane’s character.”  

Marie hums thoughtfully. “He’s an unreliable narrator.”

“Yes, precisely. Does that not come across?”

“Not quite, but knowing he’s unreliable makes what you’ve written thus far much more interesting,” Marie says. Need stronger indicia that Isaac = unreliable, Oscar notes. What might reveal his biases? “Tell me more about how Shane challenges Isaac’s expectations.”

“I think…” Oscar shuts his eyes and imagines Zolf in a pool of yellow lamplight, smoking a cigarette as he watches another man crowd Oscar against a brick wall. Oscar catches Zolf’s eye for a moment, and a shadow flickers across Zolf’s face as Oscar takes the man’s hand and leads him down an alley. “I think he’s a sex worker who’s uninterested in being ‘saved.’”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Oscar,” Marie says gently. “How autobiographical is this novel going to be?”

“For goodness sake, Marie,” Oscar huffs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t start being nice to me just because I used to be a rent boy.”

“Don’t be a prick, Oscar. I’m just…” Marie hesitates. “Look, I’m not going to tell you that you can’t write about your own experiences, but you know how the media can be.”   

“Don’t worry about my reputation.” Oscar leans back in his chair and smiles broadly. “Just think of the publicity.”

“As much as it pains me to say it, I care more about you than I do about the publicity.” Marie sighs. “But I suppose if anyone can take it, it’s you.” 

“I just think, well, this narrative of the poor little whore who needs to be saved from their filthy, sinful life is so played out.” Oscar writes, Shane = unrepentant whore, with a flourish. “I was never ashamed of being a rent boy. Sex work isn’t something I’d want to do now, but I don’t think I was wrong for getting into it then, or for enjoying myself at the time. And the thought of Shane giving up his lifestyle for some sweet, naive man, á la Moulin Rouge, just seems painfully out of character.”

“Yes, there’s a lot there. But it’s no good if it’s not on the page, and I think you need to take a break from this soft, lovely fantasy and confront the central tension of the novel. Write the moment where Isaac discovers the truth about Shane, and maybe even write the end before you go back and fill in the gaps.” 

“You’re absolutely right.” Moment of discovery—how does Zolf Isaac react? (how will Zolf react?) Does Isaac confront Shane? How does Shane respond? “I’ll try to send you some more material soon.” 

“Fabulous. So how did Zolf react when he figured it out?”

“He, uhhhm.” Oscar idly doodles in the margins of his notebook. “He was annoyed.”

“Was he now?” 

Oscar can hear the smirk in Marie’s voice, and he grins as he fingers his braid. “He plaited my hair and told me that he loves Judy Garland,” he says dreamily. 

Marie snorts. “It’s alright, Oscar. You don’t have to tell me what happened. I think I can figure it out.” 

“Don’t be crass, Marie,” Oscar sighs. “Aren’t I allowed to find love, even at my advanced age?”

Marie laughs warmly. “Yes, you’re allowed, just as long as you finish writing your novel along the way.”

Chapter Text

Oscar’s hair won’t stop falling in his eyes, and he can’t stand it anymore. He huffs as he yanks his hair back into a painfully tight ponytail. It’s been nearly two weeks since he’s made any real progress on Bad Sons. In that time, he’s written and discarded whole chapters, replotted the entire novel countless times, and now whenever he tries to write, it’s as though his mind is trapped in quicksand. Part of him wants to just relax and get sucked under, give up on this stupid novel and his stupid ideas and run back to his stupid life in London.

Oscar flips through his notebook, searching for anything that might inspire him. It’s shit, it’s all shit, there’s not a single word in here worth using. He tosses his notebook aside and picks up his manuscript. He’s lost count of how many times he’s read through the first chapters, but he hates himself a little less when he pretends like he’s accomplished something, so may as well.  

Shane glanced to the side, as though something had caught his eye at the edge of his vision, and for a fleeting moment something soft and vulnerable flickered over his face. It made him look terribly young, and I suddenly felt the urge to tug him closer and pull him down against my chest.  

Oscar circles the two sentences and writes, What Isaac sees ≠ what’s necessarily happening. He doodles in the margins for a second before adding, Yes we all know this already, you need to build it into your writing. Then, It’s literally your job to figure this out, you absolute idiot.

Oscar sighs and rubs his eyes. He’s always been a night owl, but over the past week he’s been staying up absurdly late every night, staring at the blank, unforgiving pages of his notebook and feeling his reputation fade with every passing minute. But maybe if he forces himself to swallow the bitter dregs of his fourth cup of instant coffee, the words will finally flow from his pen and onto the page, and he won’t have to go to bed feeling like a complete failure. He turns back to his manuscript and continues reading.

Shane felt so fragile beneath my hands, and an urgent, aching tenderness bloomed in my chest as he weakly gripped my wrist. “Stay,” he whispered. His eyes were glassy and exhausted as he looked up at me, and in that moment I felt as though I would do anything to make him feel better.

I crouched beside the bed and took Shane’s hand. “You’re alright, love. I’ll look after you.” I smoothed his hair away from his forehead. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Just sit tight. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Shane wouldn’t ask Isaac to stay, even if he wanted him to, Oscar writes, crossing out that line. The pressure from his tight ponytail radiates in sharp, nauseating waves across his brow, and Oscar grits his teeth as he wrenches the elastic out of his hair. Isaac likes that Shane needs him in this moment. It’s not just tender, it’s a little possessive. But he genuinely thinks he’s being a good person, and what he’s doing is a good thing, at least for now, the intentions are just a little off. How to show that? How? HOW?!?

Oscar scowls at Zolf, who’s blithely reading a Campbell behind the counter. Zolf hasn’t really approached him since reading the most recent draft of Bad Sons, aside from ringing him up and mumbling the name of whatever delicious food he’s serving for lunch. But Oscar doesn’t have the energy or patience to be charming, anyways, so it’s fine, it’s fine, he’ll just order his coffee and sit down and shut up, just like Zolf has always wanted, and edit his terrible manuscript for the millionth time. 

Shane was brilliant and beautiful with potential, even as he stumbled into my flat drunk in the middle of the night and stood me up outside his building. And in the final summer before the start of my clinical training, I was hungry for the thrill of possibilities extending far beyond my family’s farm, my parent’s dull, ceaseless expectation that I would someday set aside my books and pick up my responsibility to their fading legacy. 

Remember when you were brilliant and beautiful with potential? Oscar writes. Something sparks in his foggy brain, and he grabs his notebook. Remember the way men would look at you like you were something worth fighting for, something they needed, something extraordinary? Remember the scent of stale beer and piss and cigarette smoke, cobblestones bruising your knees, feeling filthy and gloriously alive?

There’s something there, the barest glimmer of inspiration, but it’s already coming apart in Oscar’s hands as he writes the words on the page. When he reads it back it all sounds painfully self-indulgent and trite, and Oscar groans in frustration. I hate writing. He tips his head back, clawing his stupid hair out of his eyes. I hate my hair. I hate my agent. I hate my job. I hate the rain. I hate the cold. I hate—

“Alright, Oscar?” Zolf calls out. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” Oscar sighs. He sits up, still holding his hair back with one hand, and starts paging through his notebook. “How are you?”

“You don’t seem fine.” Zolf frowns as he walks out from behind the counter. “You look awful.”

“Good to know,” Oscar says dryly.

Zolf picks up Oscar’s empty coffee cup and looks at him expectantly. “D’you need anything?” 

What are you offering? But Zolf looks serious as anything, and Oscar knows exactly what he’s offering today. “Another macchiato would be lovely, thanks.” He gives Zolf a terse smile before turning back to his work. 

“Maybe you should take it easy on the coffee.”

Oscar snaps his head up. “Excuse me?”

Zolf shrugs. “It’s no good for you, you know. Drinkin’ that much coffee just to keep yourself goin’. You’re gonna do yourself some serious damage.”   

“I think I know my own limits, thanks,” Oscar bites out. 

“Obviously not.” Zolf looks Oscar up and down and raises his eyebrows. “Have you been sleeping at all lately?” 

“Zolf, I’m fine.” Oscar flashes his best condescending smile, and feels a nasty rush of satisfaction as Zolf narrows his eyes. “Why don’t you leave me alone so I can try to get some work done?”

“Yeah, alright.” Zolf scoffs as he stomps towards the kitchen. “Whatever you say.” 

Oscar rolls his eyes. Oh, go pout about it, why don’t you? Zolf’s neverending gloom is starting to feel more petulant than enigmatic, and Oscar is in no mood to placate anyone, let alone some hypersensitive, obstinate, self-righteous ass who never really liked him, anyways. He shoves his notebook and pen into his bag and strides out of Coriander, slamming the door behind him.

The following day, Zolf sells his last croissant just after 10:00 a.m. He prepares a traditional shepherd’s pie for the special—heavy, bland, all meat and carbs, the kind of food he’s sure Oscar would despise—and settles in behind the till with Questions of the Heart, feeling petty and pleased with himself.

Oscar never shows. 

Coriander is oppressively quiet without the scratch of Oscar’s pen, the rustle of his notebook, his sly, drawling voice, and Zolf finds himself snapping his head up expectantly every time the door swings open. 

When Azu stops by for lunch, she gives him a soft smile as she walks behind the counter. “Where’s Oscar?”

Zolf suddenly can’t stand the kindness on Azu’s face, the tight, concerned lines creasing her forehead, and he takes a long sip of tea to stop himself from snapping at her. “Dunno. Probably fucked off to London.”

“I can’t imagine that’s true,” Azu says soothingly. “He came by the shop yesterday and picked up a massive stack of books. A couple Campbells, and every Austen I had in stock.”

“Jane Austen?”

“Yes, of course,” Azu scoffs. “What other Austen is there?”

Zolf goes to prepare Azu’s lunch. “Why d’you reckon Oscar’s reading a bunch of stodgy old novels?” 

Azu shoots Zolf a canny look. “I would think,” she says, not unkindly, “that if you really wanted to get to know Oscar, you would ask him about his favourite books yourself.”

Oscar dumps the pile of books on the kitchen table and picks one up at random. Pride and Prejudice. His favourite, he’s not ashamed to admit, but a novel he’s mined for inspiration far too many times before. Been there, done that. He picks up Northanger Abbey, which never fails to make him laugh, and idly flips through the pages. Too meta, he thinks, setting it aside. He needs something more personal, more intimate. 

Maybe Sense and Sensibility, which is so much about growing up and subverting romantic expectations. And the dichotomy of sense and sensibility in many ways characterises the dynamic between Isaac and Shane, which is a particularly interesting parallel because Oscar wants to subvert those archetypes in turn, or at least complicate them...Oscar sits down and starts paging through Sense and Sensibility, searching for that one conversation between Elinor and Colonel Brandon, what was it... 

His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, “Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments.”

“No,” replied Elinor, “her opinions are all romantic.”

“Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.”

“I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.”

“This will probably be the case,” he replied; “and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.”

“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne’s, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage.”

There’s something there, something about does not approve of second attachments and the prejudices of a young mind and setting propriety at naught. But his brain is so foggy and slow that each time he reaches for a connection, it slips just out of reach. He grabs his notebook and writes, Isaac is Elinor if Elinor were Marianne. What on earth is that even supposed to mean that is profoundly stupid why do you even bother just go back to London and your silly essays and your boring, preppy men, it’s not like Zolf will even notice you’re gone. 

Oscar sets down his pen and rubs his aching temples. Time for a bath.  

Oscar is having a very self-indulgent wallow in the bath when he gets a call from Eldarion. He cringes and considers letting it go to voicemail, but she’s probably the only person in the world he could stand to speak to right now. Besides, who better to discuss Sense and Sensibility with than the leading Jane Austen scholar in Britain?

“Eldarion, my darling, my pearl, the light of my life,” Oscar drawls. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Don’t be crass,” Eldarion briskly replies. “Why aren’t you answering Marie’s calls?”

Oscar tips his head back against the edge of the bath and huffs a sigh. “Oh, you know why.”

“Because you’re a terrible writer who doesn’t deserve to be represented by Harlequin Literary Agency.”

“And an awful person who doesn’t deserve Marie as a friend,” Oscar adds smoothly. He frowns down at his belly, which has grown alarmingly soft in recent weeks. “Also, I’m getting fat. It’s horribly depressing.”

“Marie doesn’t care if you’re fat.”

“Well, I care if I’m fat!”

“Oh, stop it.” Eldarion always dismisses Oscar’s insecurities with a delicate flick of her wrist, and he can practically hear her armful of bracelets tinkling imperiously. “You’re not fat. You know you’re not fat. Though it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you gained a little weight, you know. A bit of fat might even fill out those wrinkles you’re always going on about.”

Oscar sits up, scowling. “Do not bring up my wrinkles, Eldarion. I am very fragile right now.”

“Why, did your Mr Smith ‘jilt you creditably’ after all?” 

“Two weeks ago he kissed me and braided my hair and told me he loves Judy Garland, and now he barely speaks to me at all.” Oscar sighs and sinks back into the bath, resigned. “‘If you can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I have suffered now.’”

“For goodness sake, Oscar, you haven’t known him for two months,” Eldarion chides. “‘Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.’”

“Ahhhh, but ‘it is not time or opportunity that is to—to determine...’” Oscar falters as he struggles to remember the quote, and he scoops Sense and Sensibility off the edge of the tub and frantically rifles through the pages. 

Eldarion hums with recognition and supplies, “‘To determine intimacy; it is disposition alone—’”

“Hold on, I’ve got it, just let me...Hah!” Oscar exclaims as he finds the underlined passage. “‘It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.’”

“That doesn’t count. You couldn’t recall the line from memory.”

“Oh, come on, you have to let me win sometimes,” Oscar says, setting the book aside. “Also, are you really chastising me for falling for someone too quickly? That’s a bit rich coming from you. How long did you know Marie before you moved in together? A month?”

“That’s different. We’re lesbians. It’s our culture,” Eldarion says coolly. “So it’s Sense and Sensibility this time?” 

Eldarion knows better than anyone, even Marie, that Oscar reads Austen like a student revising for exams when he’s uninspired because he’ll always feel more comfortable as a critic than he does as a novelist. It’s why she’s one of the only people Oscar can stand to talk to when he has writer’s block—she doesn’t mind discussing theory. “Yes, I think there are some interesting parallels between Marianne and Elinor and Shane and Isaac that are worth exploring.”

“Remind me. Isaac is...you?”

“No, Isaac is Zolf, if Zolf was actually a nice person. Shane is me, if I was even more camp and fabulous than I already am.”  

“Whatever the case may be, you must be Marianne,” Eldarion states matter-of-factly. “Silly, sensuous, and stupid.” 

Oscar laughs. “Darling, you know me so well. But let’s be clear here. If you’re saying Shane must be Marianne, and accordingly, Isaac must be Elinor, I’m not sure that’s quite right. Because Elinor isn’t just sensible and proper, she’s worldly. Whereas Marianne has the luxury of being romantic because she’s never been disabused of the notion that love conquers all.”

“And Shane has?” 

“To a certain extent, though I don’t think it’s an exact parallel. Shane is akin to Marianne in the way he’s invested in his sensibilities, and grasping hold of the moment, and ‘setting propriety at naught.’ But what is the given value of propriety, really? Perhaps ‘setting propriety at naught’ is the appropriate choice for Shane. He is a sex worker, after all.”  

“That’s interesting, but I’d frame it differently,” Eldarion says. “Even from reading the first few chapters of Bad Sons, it’s clear that Isaac will ultimately want to make an ‘honest man’ out of Shane, because there are indications that Isaac’s beliefs, while generally liberal, are rooted in conventional respectability. But what I think you’re saying is that Shane has a more relativist—some might say progressive—concept of propriety. As in, what might be considered proper depends on an individual’s identity and circumstances. After all, one could say that attempting to dissuade a sex worker from exercising agency over their body is profoundly improper.”

“Absolutely. That’s exactly it, hold on.” Oscar hauls himself out of the tub and starts toweling off. “I need to write this down before any inspiration gets swallowed up by the ceaseless void of my mind.”  

“You should be kinder to yourself,” Eldarion says breezily. “Cognitive decline is only natural at your age. You can hardly be expected to trust your own mind.”

“For goodness sake, Eldarion, I’m forty-three,” Oscar grumbles, yanking on a pair of joggers. “You’re more than twice my age!”

Eldarion laughs. “Don’t get distracted. You know, I certainly understand why Sense and Sensibility appeals to your, ah, sensibilities, if you will, but have you considered referencing Emma and Persuasion for inspiration?”

“Emma for the unreliable protagonist, presumably.” Oscar jogs over to the kitchen table and flips open his notebook before writing, Propriety is relative, i.e. morality is relative. Ethics of Other London vs. ethics of Gragg’s. “And its exploration of youthful hubris.”

“Yes, but also for Austen’s characterisation of the town of Highbury. This idea of place as character. It seems as though the communal voice of London is as important to Bad Sons as Highbury is to Emma.”

“Right, because Isaac has this romanticised vision of London, which is deeply entwined with his romanticised vision of Shane.” London as character—the romance of London vs. the reality of city life , Oscar writes. “And I think understanding that his relationship with Shane isn’t some kind of Pretty Woman Hollywood romance is as much about his disillusionment with London as it is his heartbreak. And what’s your pitch for Persuasion?”

“Not for Bad Sons, per se.” Eldarion sighs, as though she’s disappointed with herself. “For you. ‘She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.’”

“Eldarion!” Oscar exclaims as he writes, Zolf = natural sequel of an unnatural beginning. “You soft-hearted, incurable romantic! Are you saying that ‘I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve?’”

“What I’m saying, Oscar, is that if you’re going to write a semi-autobiographical novel, you owe it to yourself to put in the work of examining how your past experiences have shaped your present.”

“You want me to be happy.” Oscar leans back in his chair and smiles. “You think Zolf and I are destined to be together.”

“I think you need to start answering Marie’s calls,” Eldarion says, and hangs up the phone. 

Chapter Text

Oscar doesn’t come to Coriander the next day, either. Or the day after that.

On the fourth day that Oscar doesn’t show, Zolf makes dumplings. 

In Zolf’s opinion, dumplings are a perfect food. They’re delicious and versatile and universally beloved. They freeze beautifully, so Zolf can make far too many and give them away. And best of all, when Zolf makes dumplings, he can spend the entire day in the kitchen kneading dough and rolling out dumpling skins and pleating perfect little parcels until his back aches and his mind finally clears. 

By the time Sasha comes by for lunch, Zolf has made so many dumplings that he’s burned through his inventory of pork, chicken, and shrimp and has started filling dumplings with sauteéd kale. Sasha takes in the rows upon rows of dumplings covering every surface of the kitchen and shakes her head sadly. “Awww, mate.” She grabs a takeaway box and starts shoveling pan-fried dumplings inside. “Gonna take these with me. No point in eating with you when you get like this. We’ll take two bags of shrimp dumplings, though. And one each of pork and chicken.”

Zolf nods. “You’ll like these kale dumplings. They’re a bit like the bok choy ones I made last time.”

“Yeah, alright. A couple bags of those too, then.” Sasha shuts her takeaway box, then hesitates. “Oscar’s alright, you know.”

Zolf spoons too much kale into a dumpling and groans in frustration as the skin tears. “Why, just because he has decent taste in furniture?” 

Sasha narrows her eyes. “No, because he has decent taste in men.”

“Oh, come off it, Sasha.” Zolf leans against the counter, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t even know his phone number.”

“He’s staying at Eldarion’s place.” Sasha looks at him meaningfully as she grabs a pen and starts scribbling on a napkin. “Here's the address.”

An hour later, Zolf finds himself in front of a neat little cottage about a half mile down the road from Coriander, clutching a cortado and a massive bag of frozen dumplings. He hoists the bag onto his hip and knocks on the bright red door, feeling unimaginably ridiculous.

Oscar answers the door wearing joggers and a faded grey hoodie, half of his hair held back by a chunky plastic hair clip. Zolf blinks up at him, his mouth suddenly dry. Oscar looks rumpled and cozy. Comfortable. Incredibly touchable. “Uhhhm,” Zolf says intelligently. “Uhh. Hi.” Jesus.

“Hello, Zolf.” Oscar leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Did I, uhhh—” Zolf nods at Oscar’s clothes “—did I wake you?”

“No.” Oscar arches an eyebrow. “Did you think I wore a waistcoat around the house? I am ostensibly on holiday, you know.”

“I dunno, I’ve never—I guess I just didn’t—” Zolf takes a breath, trying to clear his head. “Anyways, it’s, uhm, it’s been a while since you’ve come round.” 

“I didn’t think you’d miss me.” Oscar glances at the cup in Zolf’s hand, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Is that for me?”

“Uhm. Yeah.” Zolf unceremoniously thrusts the cup at Oscar. “It’s a cortado.” 

Oscar’s fingers brush softly over Zolf’s knuckles as he accepts the cup. “Thank you.”

“And I, uhm.” Zolf holds up the bag. It’s an obscene amount of dumplings, but he couldn’t decide if Oscar would prefer pork or chicken, and what if he didn’t bring enough of the ones he liked? “I made dumplings. If you want them.”

Oscar smiles, bright and warm as a summer morning. “I love dumplings.” He holds the door open and glances at Zolf sidelong as he sips his cortado. “Why don’t you come in?”

It’s so good to see you, Oscar doesn’t say when he opens the door to find Zolf on his front step, even though it takes every last bit of self-restraint to suppress the urge to take Zolf by the hand and drag him inside. This is the first time Zolf has acted anything more than cooly indulgent, and Oscar can’t help but milk it for all it’s worth.

But Oscar knows he’s done for when Zolf hands him enough dumplings to feed a small army. “I, uhm, I didn’t know if you prefered pork or chicken,” Zolf says, blushing furiously. “And there are some kale dumplings in there too, which sounds a bit weird, I know, but they’re really quite good.”

Oscar opens the freezer, shuffling around a stack of ready meals to make room for the dumplings. “As I believe I’ve told you before, I’ll eat anything you make. Anything at all.” 

“Yes, well…” Zolf hovers by the doorway, still in his coat, as though he expects to be escorted out of the house any minute. 

You’re so nervous. Oscar smiles to himself as takes Zolf’s arm and leads him over to the sitting room, tugging him down onto the sofa. “You didn’t just come to feed me, did you?” 

“Uhm, no. Not exactly.”

Oscar studies Zolf’s face as he takes a long sip of his exquisite cortado, savouring the rich flavour of espresso after so many days of instant coffee. There’s a softness about Zolf’s eyes that Oscar hasn’t seen before, something apologetic, even contrite. “You came for me.”

Oscar grins as Zolf’s all-too-familiar scowl slips back into place. “Well, you disappeared,” Zolf snaps, shrugging off his coat.  

“You missed me,” Oscar declares triumphantly. “You simply couldn’t bear for us to be apart.”

“Oh, sod off.” Zolf rolls his eyes. “I just want to know how your bloody novel ends.”

Oscar smiles as he finishes his coffee and sets the cup aside. “Whatever keeps you coming back for more, darling.”

Zolf scoffs, but he leans back against the sofa, eyeing Oscar appreciatively. “Well, I like what you’ve got on.”

Oscar laughs incredulously and turns to face Zolf, tucking his legs under him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I look like an advert for antidepressants.” 

“No you don’t.” Zolf leans close enough that Oscar catches a whiff of coffee, and his eyes are dark and heated as he fingers Oscar’s hoodie sleeve. “You look good.”

Oscar unzips his hoodie and guides Zolf’s hands inside, and Zolf’s breath catches in his throat. Do you have a kink for loungewear, Zolf Smith? Oscar muses, dropping his gaze to Zolf’s lips. “Can I…”

“Yeah,” Zolf says roughly, crumpling Oscar’s shirt in his fists. “Yeah, ok.”

I know what you want. Oscar cuddles close and kisses Zolf, shivering as his beard scratches his cheeks. Let me take my time with you.

Zolf knows what Oscar wants. He wants fast and rough and filthy, hands tangled in his hair and gripping his arms hard enough to bruise, a voice snarling in his ear this is all you’re good for, just look at yourself, so desperate and hard for me, and you take it so well, what else am I meant to do with you? Zolf knows how to tear Oscar apart, and as Oscar leans in to kiss him, he’s prepared to do exactly that. 

But he’s not prepared for Oscar’s soft, pliant lips, the slow slide of his tongue, as though he’s memorising the taste of Zolf’s mouth. He kisses Zolf like he has all the time in the world, like he never wants this moment to end. “Zolf,” Oscar whispers, caressing Zolf’s jaw. “I’m so glad you’re here.” 

Oscar’s shirt is so well-worn that it’s almost sheer, and his skin burns through the thin fabric. It’s overwhelming and nowhere near enough, but when Zolf tries to drag him closer, Oscar pulls back. “Easy,” Oscar murmurs against his lips. “Easy, now.”

Zolf nods slowly, his head clouded by a warm, heavy fog as he fumbles with Oscar’s hoodie, tugging it off his shoulders. “You don’t need this, love.”  

Oscar smiles and kisses him again, so gentle it makes his chest ache. “Not with you to keep me warm.” 

Zolf groans as he slips his hands under Oscar’s shirt, his skin unbearably fine beneath his fingers. Oscar exhales into his mouth, slow and shaky and painfully intimate. “God, Zolf.” He unclips his hair and lies back on the sofa, pulling Zolf down with him. “I can’t think when you touch me.” 

Zolf rucks up Oscar’s shirt around his chest, needing to be closer to the heat of his skin. “Is that a good thing?” 

“Yes.” Oscar gazes up at Zolf through his eyelashes and touches his cheek. “The world slows down around you. You make it easier to breathe.”

Zolf isn’t entirely sure he understands what that means, how that fits into the image of the suave, sophisticated man who shamelessly flirts with him across the counter. But he already knows what Oscar wants, doesn’t he? He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Oscar’s joggers, tugging them down around his thighs. Oscar’s cock bobs against his stomach, and Zolf swallows hard. “Uhhhm,” he says thickly, gripping Oscar’s bare hips. “You’re not wearing any pants.”

Oscar covers his face with his hands and laughs, long and hard. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah.” Zolf looks down at the extraordinary man sprawled out beneath him and laughs, a little helplessly. “I guess so.”

Oscar’s breath hitches as Zolf wraps his hand around his cock, but he catches Zolf’s wrist and shakes his head. “I know how good you are with your hands,” Oscar assures him, smiling warmly. “But maybe another time.” 

Zolf rolls onto his side and grins back at Oscar, brushing Oscar’s dimple with his thumb. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Oscar takes Zolf’s hand and presses his lips to his palm, then shucks off his shirt. “Sure you do,” he says softly, winding an arm around Zolf’s shoulders. “Come here.” 

Zolf settles his head in the crook of Oscar’s arm, and Oscar hums, low and pleased, as he bundles him into his chest. The hard edges of Zolf’s prosthetic dig sharply into his other leg, and he’s so hot that he’s sweating through his jumper, and Oscar’s downy chest hair is tickling his lips, and it’s incredible. Electricity hums in his veins as he strokes the length of Oscar’s back and Oscar melts under his touch, draping his long body around Zolf like a blanket. 

“‘s nice,” Oscar murmurs drowsily into Zolf’s hair. 

“Yeah?” Zolf croaks, his voice cracking a little on the word.

“Mmmm.” Oscar’s breathing grows shallow and even as he drifts off to sleep, and Zolf lies in his arms for what feels like hours, petrified and sweaty and utterly enthralled. Oscar has a crude stick-and-poke tattoo of a Venus symbol on his right shoulder, and Zolf traces it with his fingertip, fascinated by the incongruity of the rough ink against his fine skin.

It’s strange, how quickly Oscar has insinuated himself into Zolf’s life. He’s only been in Wynsbury for a handful of weeks, but when he stopped coming to Coriander, Zolf felt his absence like a physical thing. It felt like baking a loaf of bread that hadn’t been kneaded properly, or eating an underseasoned dish. An annoyance, that’s what you are, Zolf muses, smiling slightly to himself. Insufferable, even when you’re gone. 

Oscar stirs, and his hair falls soft and warm against Zolf’s cheek as he cuddles closer, the hard line of his cock pressing into Zolf’s ribs. “Erm, Oscar?” Zolf says gently, looking up at him through the fall of his hair.

“Whassat,” Oscar replies muzzily. He languidly ruts against Zolf’s stomach, moaning softly. “Stay.”

Zolf’s heart squeezes tight in his chest. “You awake?”

Oscar uncoils from around Zolf and rakes his hair back, stretching like a cat. “Sorry,” he says, his voice husky with sleep. “So tired.” Oscar’s joggers are still bunched around his thighs, and he peels them off before flopping back down. “Hope you don’t mind. Was there somewhere you needed to be?”

“S’fine,” Zolf mumbles. It’s his café; he can take the afternoon off if he damn well pleases. “Sleep well?”

“Best I’ve slept in ages.” Oscar frames Zolf’s face with his hands and kisses him, a lazy, open-mouthed kiss that sends blood rushing in Zolf’s ears. “Can I ask you a question?”

Zolf slides his hand down Oscar’s body, mapping the flat planes of his stomach, the sharp angle of his hips. “Sure.”

Oscar sighs happily and grins. “Why did you come here, really?”

“Well, I…” Zolf runs his fingers up Oscar’s spine, tracing each delicate vertebrae. “I didn’t…I was worried.” 

“Worried I fucked off to London?” Oscar takes Zolf’s hand and sets it on his arse. “You’re allowed to touch my bum, you know.”

“Uhhhmm.” Zolf cups Oscar’s stupidly perfect arse, his face burning. “I don’t, I, uhm, I don’t know.” 

“I’m sorry I made you worry.” Oscar kisses Zolf’s cheek. “I was frustrated and exhausted and didn’t know what to do with myself. But I wouldn’t leave Wynsbury without saying goodbye.”

Something heavy twists in Zolf’s gut. But you’ll leave eventually, won’t you? He reaches up and tucks Oscar’s hair behind his ear. “What are we doing, Oscar?”

“Getting to know one another.” Oscar smiles and trails his fingers along the neckline of Zolf’s jumper. “I’ve made quite the study of you, you know. Shall I present my findings?” 

Zolf chuckles. “Sure, why not?”

“You love Harrison Campbell and Judy Garland, which suggests a profound, albeit unintentional, appreciation for high camp. You’re obsessed with spices, and you have this almost compulsive need to feed people. Men flirt with you constantly, and you don’t really understand why. You bake bread when you’re upset, which is often, usually every couple of days. More frequently when it rains, though I believe that has less to do with the weather and more to do with the lack of customers to keep you busy and out of your head.” Oscar smooths his hand over Zolf’s shoulders. “You’re carrying something with you.”

Zolf breathes in Oscar’s fragrant skin until he finds the warm, familiar scent of cardamom, nestled safely beneath a bouquet of flowers. “Not sure I know what you mean.”

“Something happened to you that you can’t let go.” Oscar frowns as he cups Zolf’s cheek. “It’s alright. I won’t ask you to talk about it.”

“Where are you from?” Zolf asks, desperate to change the subject.

“I live in London, but I’m originally from Dublin. And you?”

“Herefordshire, originally.” The crisp, open syllables of Oscar’s accent don’t sound like Dublin, but Zolf doesn’t press further. He traces the Venus symbol on Oscar’s shoulder and wonders what might be hidden in Oscar’s past. Or his present, for that matter. “And you make a living writing stories?”

“Not really, no.” Oscar smiles ruefully. “I’ve only published one novel, and it sold reasonably well, but that was six years ago. For the most part, I’m a journalist. A literary and culture critic.”

“God, that scans.” Zolf thinks of Oscar’s running commentary on Harrison Campbell and huffs a laugh. “No wonder you’re so insufferable.” 

“Insufferable, cultured. I see no difference.” Oscar cards his fingers through Zolf’s hair. “You haven’t always been a baker, have you?”

“Not as such, no. But I served in the Navy for a while and worked as a cook on the ship. Did a bit of mining before that, with my family.” Zolf pauses for a moment, then blurts, “Tell me something people don’t know about you.”

Oscar’s hand stills in Zolf’s hair, and he takes a deep breath. “Sometimes I feel as though I’m constantly defending the way I’ve lived my life.” 

“How d’you mean?”

“I…I haven’t always been a writer. For a while, I was…” Oscar falters and shifts on the sofa. “I’ve been having a lot of trouble with my novel lately because I’m writing about something I experienced when I was younger, and I can’t quite figure out how to write about it honestly.” 

“Uhm. Ok.” Zolf pulls back to look at Oscar, a little confused by the change in topic. “D’you—d’you want to talk about it?”

Oscar cannot be naked when he tells Zolf he used to be a rent boy.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” he says sincerely, fumbling to pull on his joggers. “Just let me…” He yanks his shirt over his head, then shrugs his hoodie back on. 

Zolf pulls himself upright and hands Oscar his hair clip, looking at him quizzically. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, thank you.” Oscar takes the hair clip and sets it on the end table—this conversation calls for reasonably decent hair—then turns to face Zolf. “I used to be a sex worker.” 

“Oh.” Zolf blinks up at him. “Ok.”

“This was about twenty years ago. I was a rent boy for the most part, but I also worked for a short time at a fetish club in London when I first moved to England. Just as a host, in theory, but it all got mixed up in the end.” Oscar smiles wryly and shrugs. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“I mean, that’s...that’s fine!” Zolf looks down and fiddles with the hem of his jumper. “I don’t...we all, y’know, do things when we’re younger, and I’m the last person to—”

Oh, for goodness sake. Oscar presses his lips together to stop himself from laughing and takes Zolf’s hand. “None of that, please,” he says lightly. “I hope you’re not scandalised by my misspent youth, but I’m not ashamed of any of it.”

“I’m not surprised.” Zolf flushes a violent shade of fuschia and claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh god, I didn’t—I didn’t mean about the—about your past, I just meant that—it makes sense from what I—well, from how you are, just in general, that you wouldn’t be ashamed. A-and not just about the, y’know, the sex, uhm, the sex stuff.”  

Zolf is just so painfully earnest and uncomfortable, and Oscar makes a high, strangled sound as he chokes back a giggle. Zolf looks up at him, alarm written all over his handsome face, and Oscar can’t take it any longer. He presses his face into Zolf’s shoulder and dissolves into laughter. “The sex stuff,” he gasps. “Zolf, the sex stuff? Seriously?”

“Well, I don’t know!” Zolf lets out an exasperated laugh. “I’m a bit out of my depth with all of this, to be honest.”

“You can call me a whore,” Oscar teases, wiping his eyes. “I don’t mind.” 

Zolf’s mouth tightens at that, and he shakes his head. “I’d really rather not.”

You dear, awkward idiot. “Darling, you can call me anything you like.” Oscar wraps an arm around Zolf’s shoulders and pulls him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Now let’s give you something to do with your hands so you don’t run away. “Would you mind showing me how to cook those lovely dumplings you brought with you? I haven’t eaten since yesterday, and after that fabulous nap I’m absolutely famished.” 

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday?” Zolf hauls himself to his feet and stalks off towards the kitchen. “What is wrong with you?”

“It’s only—” Oscar pulls out his phone to check the time and winces “—half past three.”

“Come on, Oscar.” Zolf rummages around in the cabinets, scowling, until he finds a frying pan. “What are you, nineteen?”

“Forty-three.” Oscar drags a stool over to the stove for Zolf and retrieves the dumplings from the freezer. With the boost, Zolf’s head fits perfectly under Oscar’s chin when he winds his arms around Zolf’s waist. “Thank you for doing this for me.”    

“Yeah, sure,” Zolf mumbles, leaning back against him. “May as well, as long as you’re here.”

Chapter Text

Oscar’s workspace is an ordered chaos of books adorned with countless brightly-coloured tabs and collated notes written in his looping hand that cover every inch of an elegant walnut dining table. 

“So, uhhh,” Zolf says as Oscar briskly sweeps a pile of notes onto a chair to make room for his plate of dumplings. “D’you—d’you want to talk about your novel?” 

“In a minute, let me just—” Oscar bites into a dumpling and groans as he shuts his eyes. “Oh my god. Oh, Zolf, they’re spectacular, I don’t know how I managed to stay away from you for so long.”

“Don’t be daft, it was four bloody days,” Zolf mumbles, smirking at his lap. His eyes catch on Oscar’s bright blue pen, and he huffs a laugh as he recognizes his own rough handwriting, scrawled in the margins of the draft by Oscar’s notebook. “Don’t tell me you’re actually referencing my notes.”

“They’re excellent notes,” Oscar insists, attacking another dumpling. 

For someone who consistently forgets to eat, Oscar inhales his food at such a frantic speed that Zolf reaches over and rests a hand on his arm. “Easy, love,” Zolf says lightly. “Food’s not goin’ anywhere.” 

Oscar wipes his mouth delicately with a napkin and smiles softly as he meets Zolf’s gaze. “I certainly hope not.”

“I can, uhh.” Zolf gestures at the kitchen. “I can always make you more, if you want.” 

Oscar laughs, and Zolf frowns, feeling vaguely like he’s missing something. “No, no, that won’t be necessary, thank you, this is perfect. But I was wondering if I might ask you for another favor.” He scoops up his notebook and rifles through the pages before handing it to Zolf. “Would you mind taking a look at this? I know I usually give you a proper draft to read, but I...like I said before, I’m writing about something that happened to me when I was younger, and I…Basically, Shane is a prostitute, and I’m struggling to write how Isaac finds out, and what his reaction might be, and again, I know that—look, I feel I must reiterate again that Isaac isn’t you, he’s a fictional character, but I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated hearing your thoughts, and—” 

Zolf smiles to himself as he takes Oscar’s notebook. You’re so nervous. “I’m happy to read it,” he says, gently pushing Oscar’s hands back towards his plate. “Just finish your food.”

[A/N: Maybe another “date” scene? Some kind of foreshadowing? Does Isaac see Shane pick up a client and not fully understand the whole story?] 

I was heading back to the bar at Other London after a smoke break when I heard Shane moan. I turned to see Shane sitting in a chair with her head thrown back, her skirt rucked up around her waist. A man was tied up on the floor between her legs, and she was fucking into his mouth. 

Blood rushed in my ears, and the room seemed to bend around her as I stood rooted to the spot. I don’t know how long I stood there, watching Shane’s exquisite face contort with pleasure, her fingers twist in the man’s hair. I knew exactly how that felt, that tight, satisfying pain at the crown of my head when I took Shane all the way down my throat, her other hand wrapped possessively around the nape of my neck. 

Someone grabbed my arm and yanked it hard. “Come with me, right now,” Cat hissed in my ear, dragging me across the club and into her studio. 

As soon as Cat closed the door behind us, I whirled on her. “Did you know Shane fucked the clientele?” 

Cat crossed her arms and regarded me impassively. “What, did you not?”

“No!”

Annoyance flashed across Cat’s face. “It’s just work, mate.” 

I scoffed. “I mean, it’s a little more than ‘just work’ if you ask me.”

“Might be to Shane. The fuck do you know about it?” Cat snapped. I reeled back, stunned by the heat in her voice. “It’s her cock, Isaac. She can decide if she wants to put it to work.” 

“I didn’t—I didn’t think she’d do that.” I felt unbelievably stupid and naive, but I couldn’t reconcile what I’d just seen with the soft, sleepy boy I’d kissed that morning. 

Cat snorted derisively. “Do you even know Shane?” I flinched, and her face softened. “Isaac, you use protection with her, right?”

I looked at the wall, my face burning. “Yeah, of course. I’m not a complete idiot.”

Cat patted my shoulder. “Look, mate, just some advice from someone who’s known Shane for a long time. I know you’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, but try not to get the wrong idea. Shane’s not gonna change for you. And frankly, she doesn’t need to.”

---

[A/N: Some kind of interim scene? Does Isaac confront Shane that night? Does he wait until he can’t bear it any longer?]

The next time I went home with Shane, I hung back for a moment and watched him unlace his boots, uncertain of what to say.

“You’re looming.” Shane stood up and crowded me against the wall. “What’s on your mind?” 

I pushed away and scrubbed a hand over my face. “I saw you with that man at Other London.”

Something slammed shut behind Shane’s eyes, and he stepped back. “You know I’m sleeping with other people.” 

“I didn’t know you were a sex worker.”

“Yes, you did.” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m a stripper, Isaac. You can call it ‘neo-burlesque’ or whatever fancy, respectable name you want to use with your university friends, but I take off my clothes for a living. You watch me dance twice a week!”

“No, I know, I didn’t—” I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “I didn’t know you—that you—”

“For fuck’s sake, just say it,” Shane snapped. “You didn’t know I was a whore.”

I looked at him, miserable and at a complete loss. Shane sighed and sat down heavily on his mattress, massaging his temples. “If you’re worried about picking something up from me, I always use protection, and I get tested every other week.”

“Shane, I’m not worried about that.” I knelt down in front of him. “I’m worried about you.”

“Are you, now?” Shane gave me a nasty smile. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“Do you need money?” I reached out and touched his arm. “I can lend you money, whatever you need.”

Shane snatched his arm away. “Of course I need money, but that’s not why I do it. If I just needed money, I’d still have my old job at Tesco, or I’d get a gig as an accompanist at a bloody church.”  

“Then why do you do it?” I asked, and my voice sounded pathetic even to me. 

Shane gave me a knowing look and shook his head. “I don’t need to explain myself to you. I like you a lot, Isaac, but I don’t owe you anything.”

“I’m not saying you owe me anything.”

“It was implied,” Shane spat, and I knew he was right. “Take some responsibility for yourself. You knew what you were getting into when we started fucking.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that really all I am to you? Just another guy you fuck on your days off?”

“It doesn’t just have to be on my days off.” Shane tipped his head back, and his eyes were sultry and cruel, the look she gave every man who crossed her path at Other London. “Come find me at Other London on your break, and I’ll fuck you for fifty quid.” 

“Shane.” I felt like I’d been slapped. I trusted you, I wanted to say. But trusted him to do what? “Why would you say something like that to me?”

“I don’t know what you think you’re trying to save me from, Isaac, but I’m doing this on my own terms. I’ll fuck whomever I want to fuck, and sometimes I’ll get paid for it, and it’s none of your fucking business.” 

“I care about you, Shane.” 

Shane laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I have no doubt that you care about me, Isaac.” He hugged himself and turned to look at the wall. “I think you should go.”

[A/N: Does Isaac leave? Does he try to stay? Does Shane ask him to stay? Do they have one last night together? I think I may need to write a sex scene—if not here, than elsewhere—to serve as a contrast to the scene at Other London]

Zolf glances up at Oscar, who wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “It’s rubbish.” 

Zolf flips back to the conversation between Cat and Isaac. “Not this bit. I thought that was brilliant, actually. Goin’ back to the idea that maybe Cat is Isaac’s family, and all. I like that kind of harsh practicality, it’s very Sa—I just, it seems very Cat.”

“Hmmm. May I?” Oscar asks, reaching for his notebook. Zolf hands it to him and leans back in his chair.

“But that second part, I mean, I’m not gonna say it’s complete rubbish. But I dunno, it’s not quite right.” Zolf rubs his lip thoughtfully. “I can’t see Isaac confronting Shane, not like that, anyhow.” 

“What makes you say that?”

“I reckon he knows what he’s stepped in by now,” Zolf replies, thinking of the last chapter he read. “What was that he said last time, ‘Shane was a ride threatening to derail at any moment?’”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. I may have—” Oscar hunches over his notebook, allowing his hair to fall forward and hide his face. “Nevermind.”

Zolf leans over, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. “Alright, Oscar?” 

“Yes,” Oscar says tersely, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “You’re absolutely right that Isaac is perhaps less naive than I initially believed him to be.”

“Oscar.” Zolf brushes back Oscar’s hair, stroking his thumb over the rosy flush staining his cheeks. “Are you blushing?”

“Maybe.” Oscar grins sheepishly as he leans into Zolf’s touch. “Are you teasing me?”

Zolf huffs a laugh, and his face warms as Oscar covers his hand with his own. “Maybe.”

“Good.” Oscar nudges Zolf’s thigh with his knee. “Lord knows I need someone who knows how to take the piss.”  

Zolf raises his eyebrows. “You gonna tell me what this is all about?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Oscar sighs as he takes Zolf’s hand and laces their fingers together. “I was projecting, alright? I was thinking about some of the things we’ve done, and what you’ve said while we did them, and how I reacted and—Jesus—” Oscar presses his free hand against his cheek as his fair skin flushes violently red “—You know what I’m talking about.”

“Do I?” Zolf says mildly, thoroughly enjoying watching Oscar blush, for once. 

Oscar rolls his eyes and flaps a hand at him. “For goodness sake, don’t make me say it. Let’s just say ‘the sex stuff,’ as you so eloquently put it. And I think I managed to convince myself that you had certain preconceived notions about men like me, so to speak, and I may have projected those anxieties, as it were, onto a fictional character who may or may not be loosely inspired by a certain baker who runs the café down the road.” Oscar laughs nervously and smooths back his hair. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me.”

Zolf frowns. “It’s not—you don’t have to apologize.”

“I know. I know, I just—” Oscar rests his head in his hand and smiles, soft and sincere. “I feel a bit silly, is all.” 

None of that. “You should know,” Zolf murmurs conspiratorially, leaning in close, “that you look absolutely ridiculous when you blush.”

“Oh my god!” Oscar shoves Zolf away, shaking with laughter. “Oh my god, you are such an ass!”  

“Yeah, yeah.” Zolf grins and settles back in his chair. “Whatever you say.”

“You don’t have to go, you know.” Oscar rests a hand on Zolf’s shoulder, smiling as Zolf leans into his touch. “You could stay. Wait out the rain.” 

“I’ve got stuff to deal with at the café,” Zolf says, fumbling with his laces. “Prep for tomorrow, that sort of thing. And I don’t mind the rain.”

Oscar slowly strokes his hand down Zolf’s spine as he sits on the stairs and reclines back, letting his hoodie slip down his shoulders. “But who will keep me warm tonight?” 

It’s a terribly silly trick that he hasn’t tried to pull since his twenties, and even if Zolf were the kind of man who fell for that sort of thing, Oscar knows he’s far too old to really carry it off anymore. So he grins wryly and flutters his eyelashes to soften the effect. “Give this aging hustler a break, will you?”

Zolf laughs, a rich, deep sound that tugs at Oscar’s chest. “You mad bastard,” he says, shaking his head as he steps closer. “Don’t give me that.” He grabs a fistful of Oscar’s shirt and yanks him close, and their teeth crash together a little painfully as Zolf kisses him, laughing into it. 

Oscar takes Zolf’s face in his hands, turning the kiss into something slow and tender. Zolf lets out a low, helpless noise, and Oscar smiles against his lips. “Just admit it, darling.” He kisses Zolf gently on the cheek, then brushes his lips against his ear. “You like me, don’t you?”

It’s another old trick, one that’s rarely failed to hit its mark, though Oscar doesn’t really expect it to work this time. But when Zolf pulls away, he blinks down at Oscar, looking dazed and uncertain. “Will I see you tomorrow?” Zolf asks, a little breathlessly.

Oscar takes Zolf’s hand and looks up at him through his lashes. “Do you want to see me tomorrow?”  

“Yeah.” Zolf swallows and nods. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well.” Oscar smiles, feeling warm and pleased. “I suppose it’s your terms, or not at all. Save me a croissant, will you?”

“Yeah, alright.” Zolf strokes Oscar’s cheek with his knuckle before turning to leave. “Goodnight.”  

Oscar sighs dramatically as Zolf pulls out of his grasp. “Goodnight.” It’s for the best, he supposes. After all, he still has some writing to do.

Chapter Text

Oscar’s stupid hair keeps falling in his eyes, and Zolf’s fingers itch with the memory of how it felt in his hands, dark and glossy as black treacle, parting to reveal the delicate flush staining his creamy skin—

“Alright, Zolf?”

Zolf jumps, swearing as he slams his knee against the counter. “Jesus, Sasha!” He glares up at her, rubbing his knee. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I wasn’t even trying to be sneaky or anything,” Sasha says. “S’pose you were too busy dreaming about Oscar’s arse to pay me any mind.” 

Zolf limps over to the rice cooker and lays a sheet of seaweed on the bamboo mat. “Give me a minute, I’ve got to roll this up for you.”

“Awww, mate, you making gimbap today? Brilliant.” Sasha hops up on the counter, gesturing at the spread of perfectly julienned ingredients. “Look at you, pulling out all the stops.”

“Just had some extra time on my hands,” Zolf mumbles, spreading rice over the seaweed before layering a rainbow of vegetables and fish cake on top. The café had been painfully quiet this morning, and Zolf couldn’t stop jumping out of his skin at every bloody noise, and he’d already filled his freezer (and several others) with dumplings, and besides, Oscar would need something he could eat with his hands so he’d remember to finish his lunch, something light and flavourful with loads of vegetables—

Sasha makes a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort. “Oh, sod off,” Zolf says, without looking up.

“Wasn’t gonna say anything. It’s just...” Sasha nudges Zolf’s hip with her foot. “S’nice to see you happy.”

Zolf glowers up at her as he rolls up the gimbap. “How are things at the shop?”

“Alright. Just closed a deal. Solid teak desk, model 135 designed by Nanna and Jørgen Ditze for Poul Kold Savvaerk in 1958. Picked it up at that car boot sale last week for 120 quid. Poor sap thought it was from Ikea.” Sasha scoffs. “Can hardly blame ‘im, if I’m honest. It looks like a bloody spaceship. Anyways, the finish was a bit rough, but I managed to sand it back, good as new, and Hamid took it off my hands this morning.” 

“Final price?” Zolf asks.

Sasha blows her fringe out of her eyes, preening. “11,950 pounds.” 

“What?” Zolf raises his eyebrows as he slices the roll into bite-size pieces. “Hamid paid nearly twelve thou for a desk?”

“Posh people, am I right?” Sasha swipes gimbap off the cutting board. “Speaking of, you gonna ask Oscar to dinner tomorrow?”

“Oscar’s not—I mean, why would I—” Zolf looks over at Oscar, who’s tapping his pen against his lips, his soft, pliant lips, his hands on Zolf’s face, the overwhelming heat of his skin…  

I’m so glad you’re here.

 “Zolf. Zolf. ” Sasha flashes a shit-eating grin as she flicks a copper at Zolf, hitting him in the shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts.”

Zolf shakes his head to ground himself as he hands her a plate of gimbap. “Just, uhm. Just tired.”  

Sasha slips off the counter and shoots him a knowing look, and Zolf winces as she shouts, “Oi! Oscar!”

Oscar bolts upright. “Sorry, what?” He adjusts his glasses and smiles when he sees Sasha. “Oh, hello.”

“Hey.” Sasha hunches down in her chair and fiddles with her gimbap. “I guess you can’t be here tomorrow, what with Coriander being closed on Tuesdays and all.”

Oscar’s hair tumbles around his shoulders as he tugs the elastic off his bun, and Zolf resolutely begins preparing more gimbap for Azu. “No, I suppose not.” 

“You got any plans?”

“Nothing in particular. Just writing at home,” Oscar says. “Any reason why you might be asking?”

“Nope.” Sasha shrugs and pops gimbap in her mouth, evidently finished with the conversation. 

As he finishes wrapping Azu’s gimbap in foil, Zolf looks up to see Oscar beaming at him, that too-wide smile that overwhelms his lovely face. “Can I help you?” Zolf asks, smiling in spite of himself.

Oscar combs back his hair and cocks his head, showing off the long line of his neck. “Maybe tomorrow.”  

“Yeah, Zolf,” Sasha chimes in, her mouth full of gimbap. “You heard, right? He’s got no plans or anything. I asked.” 

Zolf shoves the foil-wrapped roll into Sasha’s hands and snatches away her empty plate. “You’re the absolute worst,” he hisses.

“See you at dinner tomorrow,” Sasha whispers back, smirking. “You know, if you don’t invite Oscar, you’ll never hear the end of it from Azu.” She saunters off, nodding at Oscar as she leaves Zolf to sulk behind Questions of the Heart.  

Oscar is having the most wonderful day. Zolf blushes when he brings out Oscar’s croissant and stammers when he brews his cortado and twists his hands in his apron when he serves Oscar a plate of something called gimbap, little rolls that look like stained glass windows wreathed in snow and taste like heaven, sweet and savoury and bright, all in one perfect bite. And every time Oscar smiles, Zolf smiles back, soft and shy, like a little boy who’s been told he’s allowed to pet a puppy. It lights up his face and does terrible, terrible things to Oscar, makes him faff with his hair and arch his back and trot out all his silliest tricks, whatever it takes to get Zolf to smile again.

I love that I make you smile. You deserve to smile. Oscar’s heart feels too full for his chest whenever Zolf lowers his gaze, that gentle little smile playing at the corners of his lips. Zolf always looks so abashed, as though he never expected someone to look at him like he’s worthy of happiness, and Oscar wants to give him this and so much more, to prove that just because joy is precious doesn’t mean it must be rare.

Oscar beams at Zolf, and his heart aches as Zolf’s face warms with a smile as exquisite and fragile as a butterfly’s wings. Such a fine, delicate thing, Zolf’s happiness, and Oscar is afraid it’ll shatter in his hands if he holds on too tight. Let me give you this, he wants to beg. Please, just take it from me. It’s alright, my love, you can have this; it’s yours.

Oscar’s breath catches in his throat. Oh. He looks down at his notebook, the blank pages suddenly rife with possibility, and takes up his pen.

It’s nearly five o’clock when Oscar finishes his draft. He brings his notebook up to the counter and hands it to Zolf with a flourish. “Would you do me the honor?”

“Idiot,” Zolf says gruffly, accepting the notebook. “Want me to read it now?”

Oscar smiles and nods. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Zolf grins shyly back. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“I can wait.” Oscar breathes through the pang in his chest as he watches Zolf read. Goodness knows you’re worth my while.

My shift was supposed to end two hours after the club closed, but as the lights went up I asked Cat if she could cover for me. “I need to—to talk to her.” Cat narrowed her eyes, and I shook my head. “Not like that, I promise.”

Cat regarded me sharply for a long moment before nodding curtly and waving me off. “Don’t be an ass.”

I found Shane in the alley outside the club, barefoot with her heels in hand as she chatted up a man in a leather jacket. He laughed at something she said and rested a hand on her hip, and with a sickening lurch I recognised him as the man who’d sucked her off earlier that night. 

“Shane,” I called out. She turned to look at me, her smudged make-up decadent and romantic in the amber streetlights. I love a smokey eye for Other London, she’d told me, straddling my chest as she showed me how to line my eyes. Why not let the sweat and filth and sultry lighting do half the work for me? “Can I—You need a place to crash til the tube starts up again?”

“You’re off early?” Shane asked. I nodded, and she smiled, bright and warm as a summer morning. “Hold on, let me just…” She whispered something in the man’s ear, and my stomach twisted into a tight knot as he smiled and handed her his phone. She typed in her number before handing it back, her fingers lingering over his, and I clenched my hands into fists inside the pockets of my jeans. Shane frowned at me slightly as she walked back towards the club. “Give me a minute to get changed.”

Neither of us could justify the cost of a cab at this hour, so we walked the mile or so back to my flat. The city felt soft and hazy, as though it had been sketched in charcoal and smudged with sweaty fingers, and while I tried to keep up the conversation, I caught Shane watching me, his gaze sharp and shrewd. 

Once we were inside my room, I hung back for a moment and watched him unlace his boots, uncertain of what to say.

“You’re looming.” Shane stood up and crowded me against the wall. “What’s on your mind?” 

I looked up at Shane, at his warm brown eyes, his beautiful smile, and that urgent, aching tenderness swelled in my chest. I shut my eyes and shook my head, unable to speak. 

“Isaac.” Shane slid his hand under my shirt and stroked up and down my spine, like he was soothing a frightened child. “You’re alright, darling.” 

I pulled back and looked at Shane, miserable and at a complete loss. I trusted you, I wanted to say. But trusted him to do what? “I can’t.” I swallowed and shook my head. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Shane frowned and stroked my hair. “What do you want?” 

She’s not gonna change for you. And frankly, she doesn’t need to. I couldn’t bear it, the kindness and affection in Shane’s voice, and I felt something snap deep inside me. I pressed my face into his chest and shook my head. 

Shane pulled me down onto the bed, and his breath flickered warmly against my lips as he held himself over me. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

I felt the sharp angles of his hips digging into my thighs, the heat of his skin, and I shut my eyes against the overwhelming desire for anything, for more, for you.

“You’re alright,” Shane said, pulling off my shirt. “I’ve got you.”

“Shane, I…” 

I’m in love with you. 

The knowledge burned through me, fierce and savage and relentless, and I gasped, arching into Shane’s chest as I reached for his lips. Take this from me, I wanted to shout. Take it, I can’t bear it, it’s yours. “Shane, please.” Please let me be enough.

“Easy.” Shane brushed our lips together, and I moaned, desperate and terrified. “Easy, now.”

Not enough. I buried my face in the crook of his neck as the room rushed around me. Never enough. “Don’t let me go,” I murmured against his skin. 

“Isaac,” Shane said gently. I went limp beneath him as he stroked my chest, my heart beating frantically against his palm. You’re mine, I wanted to say. But Shane was only mine for as long as I held him in my arms, and the night was fading fast. 

Shane was never more beautiful than he was in the moment, flickering like sunlight over the Thames, glittering and brilliant and impossible to capture. And in that moment, with the pearly glow of dawn limning the bones of his face and softening the shadows ringing his eyes, Shane was miles away from the glamorous queen that captivated Other London, and I could imagine a world where I could keep him in my arms. I kissed him, gripping his hair tight, and he pressed me into the mattress, giving me the full weight of his body. 

“Stay with me,” I breathed. “I don’t want this to end.”

“It doesn’t have to…” Shane pulled back to look at me, and a shadow crossed his face. “You know I don’t...It’s not that I...” He bit his lip and raked a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I’m no good at this. I’m not—I’m not built for—”

I pressed my hand over my eyes, unable to face him any longer. You knew, I reminded myself. You knew from the start. “It’s alright, I get it.”

“I don’t know if you do.” Shane’s voice was soft and sad as he rested his head against my chest. “I’m not using you, Isaac. I know what people say about me, but I’m not a bloody sociopath. I just—”

“I get it, Shane,” I bit out, cutting him off. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I don’t have to understand. I just…I just wanted you to know, is all.”

Shane was silent for a long moment. “Ok. I...” He sighed, then kissed the hollow at the base of my throat. “Ok. Let me give you this, at least.”

I clutched at his shoulders, my fingers digging into his soft skin, and he groaned as he kissed down my chest. “Sorry, I—”

“No, you’re alright.” Shane covered my hand with his own before I could let go. “I can take it.” 

I stroked my thumbs over his collarbones. “You don’t have to.” 

“What if I want to?” Shane tipped his head up, and his eyes were sultry and cruel, the look she gave every man who crossed her path at Other London. My terms, or not at all. “I can take it. If that’s what you want.”

“You know what I want.” I shut my eyes and let my head fall back against the mattress. “Just go easy on me, love.”

“Alright, darling.” Shane unzipped my jeans and kissed my hip. “I can do that for you.” The mattress creaked as Shane levered himself off the bed and undressed. “Will I still get to see you after tonight?” 

“Be a bit hard not to,” I said, kicking off my jeans. “What with Gragg’s, and Other London, and Cat.” 

“You know what I mean.” Shane crawled up my body and framed my face with his arms. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Come on, Shane,” I sighed, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “You can’t just say things like that.”

Shane went very still. “That wasn’t a line, Isaac.” He tightened his lips and looked away.  “But I can leave you alone, if that’s what you want.”

“No.” I wrapped my arms around his waist and rolled over him. “You’ll see me. Just not like this.”

Shane opened his mouth as if to say something, then apparently thought the better of it and closed his eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

I kissed him, slow and deep, as though we had all the time in the world. “Let me go down on you.”

Shane blinked up at me, his face soft and unguarded. “Nothing else?”

I nodded as I reached across the bed to grab a condom off my nightstand. “That alright with you?”

Shane lifted himself up on his elbows. “Tonight’s not about me.”

I smiled wryly as I stroked the condom down his cock. “That line’s not gonna work on me.”

“I know.” Shane reached out and touched my cheek. “I’m sorry.”

I settled between his legs and hooked his thighs over my arms. “S’alright.” I slid my lips over his cock and closed my eyes, letting my mind settle around the weight on my tongue, the heat pressed against my palette, and Shane moaned and buried his hands in my hair as I slowly sucked down the length of him. I pulled off and smirked, taking in his flushed cheeks, his softly parted lips. “That’s it, love. Let me have it.”

Shane nodded and wrapped his hand possessively around the nape of my neck, shoving me back on his cock. I groaned and relaxed my throat, taking him all the way down, and Shane shuddered as he twisted his fingers in my hair. I pulled hard against that tight, satisfying pain, desperate for anything, for more, for you, until he cried out, arching off the bed as he wrapped his long legs around me, his heels kicking at my back. His thighs trembled beneath my hands, pleasure coiling hot and tight beneath his skin, and I looked up to meet his gaze. 

Shane’s dark, defiant eyes never left my face, and I moaned as I swallowed around his cock. Come on, Shane, I thought fiercely, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Don’t hold back on me now.

Shane threw his head back and tightened his grip on my neck as he came, that vital tension burning through his body. “Isaac,” he breathed, bucking into my mouth. “Isaac.”

I rested my cheek against his thigh, and he carded his fingers through my hair as we lay there in the pallid light. He looked so terribly young, with his soft, vulnerable face, his dark curls staining the rough white sheets, and I hated him, and I loved him all the same. 

“Do you want me to go?” Shane asked tentatively.

I sat up and pulled off the condom, tying it off before chucking it in the bin. “You know what I want,” I said, avoiding his gaze.

Shane propped his head up on his arm, frowning. “Maybe it’s best if I go.” 

“Don’t.” I took a deep breath, then turned to look at him. “Please don’t go.”       

“Alright.” Shane pulled me down beside him, smiling apologetically. “I won’t go.” 

I did my best to smile back as I brushed his dimple with my thumb. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Shane took my hand and pressed his lips to my palm. “Sure you do,” he said softly, winding an arm around my shoulders. “Come here.” 

I felt my heart break in that unbearably tender place as I stroked the length of Shane’s back and he melted under my touch, draping his long body around me like a blanket. “‘s nice,” Shane murmured drowsily into my hair. 

“Yeah?” I whispered hoarsely.

“Mmmm.” Shane’s breathing grew shallow and even as he drifted off to sleep, and I allowed myself a moment to catalog his smooth skin, his full lips, the faint dusting of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose, before I fell asleep in his arms. 

When I woke in the morning Shane was gone, but the sheets remembered the musky, sweet scent of his skin. You knew. I breathed in the memory of his body melting beneath my hands, his lips in my hair, and swallowed around the tightness in my throat. He wasn’t yours to lose. 

Zolf swallows hard and stares at the notebook for a long moment, until Oscar can’t take the suspense anymore and rests his hand on Zolf’s arm. “What do you think?” 

“Uhm. Yeah.” Zolf clears his throat and takes Oscar’s hand. “Yeah, that’s about right.” He looks up at Oscar, and his eyes are very, very dark. “You got any plans tonight?”

“Oh my god, no.” Oscar leans across the counter, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. “Oh my god, are you asking me out?”

Zolf snorts. “I mean, it’s the offseason, so there’s not much to do in Wynsbury.” He smirks up at Oscar and slowly, deliberately strokes the palm of Oscar’s hand with his thumb. “But I live upstairs, if you want to come up with me.”

“Yes, I want that very, very much, I want that more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire life, I have spent the last month trying to show you how badly I want to go home with you.” Oscar shakes his head in disbelief. “Did you really like my sad porn that much?”

Zolf barks out a laugh, and Oscar somehow manages to smile even wider. “Something like that.”

“Please let me kiss you,” Oscar begs. "Please.” 

Zolf slides a hand around the back of Oscar’s neck and pulls him close. His beard scratches against Oscar’s lips as he smiles, soft and indulgent, and Oscar loves him, he loves him, he’s never been so painfully sure of anything in his entire life. “Maybe later.” He drops Oscar’s hand and turns away, unclipping a ring of keys from his belt loop. “Let me lock up the café, and then we can head up to my flat.” 

Chapter Text

“Oh,” Oscar says softly when Zolf lets them into his flat. “Oh, it’s lovely.”

Zolf tugs Oscar’s coat off his arm and hangs it up for him. “Sorry?” 

“Your flat.” Oscar caresses the back of Zolf’s squashy corduroy armchair like it’s the most beautiful piece of furniture he’s ever seen. “It’s so lovely.”

“Uhh, thanks.” Zolf glances around his worn, unfashionable sitting room, bemused. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

Oscar grins at the Wizard of Oz poster hanging above the sofa. “There’s no place like home, or so I’ve heard.” He wanders over to the bookshelf, running his fingers across the row of Judy Garland records and DVDs lined up below the countless tchotchkes Zolf has collected over the years. “I like your Judy shrine.”

“I did warn you. I bloody love Judy Garland.” Zolf goes to stand beside Oscar, who’s hovering over a little gilded trolley with obvious delight. “That plays ‘The Trolley Song’ when you wind it up.”

Oscar swoops down, kissing Zolf with so much force that he has to catch himself on the bookshelf. “For goodness sake,” Zolf says, laughing. “What’s this all about?” 

“I just think you’re brilliant,” Oscar says breathlessly. “Will you watch A Star Is Born with me?”

Of course. “Maybe later. Come on.” Zolf takes Oscar’s hand and leads him down the hall and into the bedroom. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Well, I absolutely can.” Oscar squeezes Zolf’s hand. “I’ve been trying very hard with you.”

“You mad bastard.” Zolf shoves Oscar back until he catches himself on the bed, perching on the edge of the mattress. “I hope you’re happy.”

“Of course I’m happy.” Oscar cradles Zolf’s face in his hands and kisses him, smiling against his lips. “You brought me home with you.”   

“Uhm.” Zolf pulls back and swallows hard as that warm frisson hums through his veins. “D’you—d’you have a condom?”

“Yes, of course.” Oscar runs back down the hall and returns with his bag, rummaging inside until he finds a box of condoms, then a bottle. “And lube! And best of all—” he triumphantly waves a piece of paper over his head “—test results!”

Zolf raises his eyebrows, laughing incredulously. “What are you, a gay Mary Poppins?”

“A gay Mary Poppins with negative test results!” Oscar crows, handing them to Zolf.

Zolf scans the results. They’re from a local clinic and dated from a couple weeks ago. Bloody optimist. “Well. Uhm. That’s both of us, then.” Zolf sets the records aside and rubs his neck. 

“What, did you preemptively get tested too?” Oscar asks excitedly. 

“Well, not preemptively, as such.” Zolf chuckles nervously. “I just, uhm, I haven’t, uh, I haven’t really done anything like this in a long time.” Not since his thirties, not that Oscar needs to know...

“Oh.” Oscar frowns and sits on the bed. “I—” 

“God, just, don’t make it weird.” Zolf scrubs his hands over his burning face. What were you thinking, asking him up, you’re too old to be humiliated in your own bedroom. “It’s not like I’ve been saving myself or anything. It’s just a thing about me. I don’t really feel the need most of the time.” Oscar opens his mouth to say something, and Zolf holds up a hand to stop him, then says in a rush, “Not that I don’t want to do it with you. I don’t mind touching you, but sometimes I won’t want you to touch me. Probably most of the time, to be honest, but it’s a bit unpredictable. Now is not one of those times.”

“That was a lot of double negatives.” Oscar catches Zolf’s wrists, pulling him close. “Just tell me what you want to do, and I’ll do it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Zolf feels it, then, something soft and warm curling in his chest like the first breath of spring after a long, relentless winter. It’s new and unexpected and thrilling, and he blinks at Oscar, at a complete loss for a moment. “I…” Zolf kisses Oscar, hard and fast. “I’m greyasexual, and I want to fuck you tonight.” 

Oscar smiles as he lies back and starts unbuttoning his shirt and waistcoat. “That can be arranged.” 

Zolf yanks off his jumper and crawls over Oscar. “I won’t always want to, but I do right now, and if you could just trust me to know what I want, that’d be great.”

“Anything you want, Zolf.” Oscar’s shirt slips down his shoulders as he cups Zolf’s cheek. “Anything at all.”

“You idiot.” Zolf kisses Oscar’s stupid, lovely mouth, relieved and grateful and painfully turned on. “What kind of an arsehole quotes their own unpublished novel?”

“The kind of arsehole—” Oscar struggles with his jeans, and Zolf helps him peel them off “—who’s going to ride you until you forget your own name.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Zolf slides his hands down Oscar’s arms and laces their fingers together. “We’ll see who ends up on top.”

Oscar laughs and arches off the bed, gripping his hands tight. “Is that a challenge, Zolf Smith?”

“Might be.” Zolf pins Oscar’s hands over his head and presses him down against the mattress, leaning heavily against his chest. “If you weren’t so damn skinny.”

Oscar smirks. “What are you, four feet tall?” He hooks a leg around Zolf’s thigh and twists his body, wrenching his hands from Zolf’s grasp and slipping out from under him like a cat. Oscar wraps his arms around Zolf’s waist and hauls him to his knees, then unclasps his trousers.

“Four foot three,” Zolf grumbles, letting Oscar slide his trousers down his thighs.  

Oscar groans softly as he runs his hands down Zolf’s back and over his arse. “Will you let me eat you out?” His breath hitches in his throat, like he’s never wanted anything so badly in his life, and heat coils tight in Zolf’s gut.

Fuck. Zolf briefly shuts his eyes and tries to pull himself together. My terms, or not at all. He grins wolfishly at Oscar over his shoulder. “Maybe. If you can pin me.” Oscar smiles slowly, his hands curling almost painfully around Zolf’s hips. “Just, hold on a sec.” Zolf sits up and shucks off his trousers, kicking them off when they catch on his prosthesis. 

The mattress creaks as Oscar moves behind him and pulls Zolf between his legs, nuzzling into his neck. He sweeps his hands restlessly over Zolf’s bare chest, his ribs, his thighs, as though Zolf is something immeasurably precious that’s about to slip through his fingers. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.” Oscar cups the swell of Zolf’s belly, clutching at the plush roll of fat around his hips. “You have no idea.”

Zolf presses closer to the heat of Oscar’s skin, turning into the curve of his neck, and he smells so good— that warm, floral cologne, blended with the musky scent of his desire. “I have some idea.” 

Oscar settles his hands on Zolf’s waist, that heated urgency softening into something warm and tender as Zolf relaxes into the shelter of his arms. “Zolf,” he sighs, tucking Zolf’s head under his chin. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Oh. Zolf feels suddenly small and fragile with Oscar wrapped around him, and that’s not how tonight’s supposed to go. He turns and shoves Oscar back with all his strength, startling him into a peal of laughter.

“You bastard!” Oscar snakes an arm around Zolf’s neck and drags him down, then levers himself over his back, digging his knee between Zolf’s shoulders until he falls to the mattress, prone. Oscar kneels over Zolf and grips his wrists. “I suppose I should’ve known you’d fight dirty.” 

“Why’s that?” Zolf strains against Oscar’s hold, but he’s like a bloody octopus, all endlessly long limbs and smooth skin. 

“Because you’ve never played fair with me.” Oscar’s hair cascades around them as he bends down and kisses Zolf’s temple. “You’ve always had the most ridiculous advantage.”

Zolf certainly doesn’t feel like he’s at an advantage now, not with Oscar’s hair grazing his shoulders and the hard length of his cock pressed against his spine. Zolf tucks his knees in and hauls himself upright, dragging Oscar with him until he has enough room to force Oscar’s arms back. “Come off it, Oscar. As though you’ve ever played fair.”

“Can you blame me for chasing what I want?” Zolf breaks free from Oscar’s hold and spins around to face him. Oscar’s cheeks are bright with exertion, and his eyes dance as Zolf reaches for him. “How could I possibly resist such an extraordinary prize?”

Zolf tackles Oscar, and they tumble to the mattress. Oscar goes pliant beneath him, wrapping his arms around Zolf’s shoulders, and god, he smells incredible. “I can’t give in to you,” Zolf growls against Oscar’s throat. “I can’t let you win.”

“Darling, I lost the minute I walked into Coriander.” Oscar tips his head back to give Zolf better access, sighing as Zolf sucks a bruising kiss into his neck. “I never stood a chance.”

Zolf slides a hand down Oscar’s flank and feels the tension vibrating beneath his skin. “D’you want me to touch you?”

Oscar shivers and clutches him closer. “Zolf, please, I’ll do anything.” His voice is low and sincere, and Zolf realises that Oscar isn’t teasing anymore. He sounds helpless, almost frightened, and Zolf is struck with the urge to give Oscar this and so much more, to prove his worth in Oscar’s eyes. 

“Alright, love,” Zolf says softly, smoothing Oscar’s hair away from his face. “Kiss me.”

Oscar drags Zolf down by his beard to bring their lips together, and Zolf groans as Oscar’s tongue slides over his, gentle and sweet and slow. Oscar presses up against him until Zolf loses all sense of where his body ends and Oscar’s begins, a heady rush of fragrant skin and fierce desire, and Zolf can’t get close enough, can’t get enough of the clean, mineral taste of Oscar’s mouth, the sharp jut of his hip bones, his sleek, slippery hair. Zolf cradles Oscar’s throat as he deepens the kiss, stroking his thumb over his fluttering pulse, and Oscar lets out a helpless little whimper that sends blood roaring in Zolf’s ears. Mine, you’re mine, I’ll look after you, I’ll never let you go—

Zolf breaks the kiss, dizzy and gasping for air, and Oscar gazes up at him, his chest heaving. 

“Zolf, I’m—” Oscar swallows hard and shakes his head. “I’m mad about you.”

Zolf traces Oscar’s lower lip with his thumb and shuts his eyes briefly, his chest tight with the overwhelming desire for anything, for more, for you. He abruptly rolls off Oscar and fumbles at his nightstand, swearing as a pile of books crashes to the floor. “Where’s the damn lube?”

Oscar crawls towards the trunk at the foot of the bed. “Over here.” His thighs slide apart as he bends down to pick up the bottle, his hips canting upwards, and Oscar has to know how good his stupid arse looks when he does that, how round and soft and inviting...

Zolf is across the bed in a flash, gripping Oscar’s hips and pulling him into his lap. “Talk about not playin’ fair. How am I supposed to keep my hands off you when you look like this?” 

Zolf runs his hands over Oscar’s stomach, and Oscar settles back against him, preening. He grinds his arse against Zolf’s cock, agonizingly slow. “Mmmm. This is nice.”

“Give me that.” Zolf releases Oscar’s waist to snatch the lube out of his hands, and before he can catch him, Oscar slips out of his lap. 

Oscar smirks as he wheels around and pounces on Zolf. “You said I could eat you out.”

Zolf plants his knees into the mattress and ducks under Oscar’s arms, grabbing him by his thighs and hoisting him over his shoulders. “Nahh. You’ve got to earn that privilege.” Oscar laughs helplessly as Zolf carries him up the bed and tosses him down against the pillows. “Flip over.”

Oscar wipes at the sweat beading on his brow, smiling mulishly up at Zolf. “Make me.”

“Yeah, alright.” Zolf hooks his arms around Oscar’s legs and steps over his body, flinging him onto his front. 

“Oh my god!” Oscar shrieks with laughter as Zolf flops over him, pinning him against the bed. “Oh my god, what is wrong with you?”

Zolf grins as Oscar writhes beneath him. “Come on, you know you’re outmatched here.” He picks up the bottle of lube and snaps it open, slicking up his fingers. “Just give in already.” 

Oscar spreads his legs, lifting himself up on his elbows as Zolf moves down to kneel between his thighs. “Why on earth would I do that?” He looks back at Zolf with a wicked smile. “I have you exactly where I want you.”

“You’re the worst.” Zolf holds his gaze as he eases in a finger. “Always so sure you’ll get what you want.”

“I meant what I said earlier.” Oscar bites his lip, rocking his hips up to meet Zolf’s hand. “I didn’t —ahhh— I didn’t think I’d get this.” 

“Neither did I.” Zolf pulls out, then slides in another finger, and Oscar judders against him, gasping. “But here we are, somehow.” 

Somehow. As though after being subjected to his insufferable face, his irrepressible silliness, his extraordinary smile for over a month, bringing Oscar home with him hadn’t become as inevitable as the winter rain. 

Oscar lets out a keening moan as Zolf curls his fingers inside him. “Look at how you want it,” Zolf says, his voice raw and broken as he works Oscar open. “You take it so well, like you’re meant for this, just look at you, so desperate for my cock, for me to touch you, for anything at all.” He leans over Oscar and sucks a kiss into his shoulder, pulling at the skin with his teeth . “Did you dream about this moment while you sat in my café, writing stories about us like a lovesick teenager?”

Oscar groans and clamps down on Zolf’s fingers. “God, fuck, yes, every day.”

“I’m gonna fuck you tonight, just like you want. And you’re gonna be a good boy and lie back and take it, let me fill you up with my cock and come inside you and leave you sticky and wet and leaking all over my bed. ” Zolf pulls out his hand and twists Oscar’s hips, flipping him roughly onto his back, and Oscar lets out a high, tremulous whine that sends a bolt of desire shooting up Zolf’s spine. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you inside me,” Oscar gasps, pulling Zolf close. “But I want to taste you, I want you in my mouth, let me eat you out first, please.”

Zolf lets Oscar roll over him and straddle his waist. “If you—if you like.”

“Do you really want me to?” Oscar’s face is creased with concern as he caresses Zolf’s jaw with gentle fingers. “We don’t have to do any of this.”

“It’s alright.” Zolf catches Oscar’s hand. “I want you to.”

Oscar searches Zolf’s face for a moment before beaming down at him. “You stunner.” He grabs a pillow, scoots down the bed, and slips his arms under Zolf’s legs, easing the pillow beneath him. “God,” Oscar breathes, cupping Zolf’s arse and gently spreading him open. He rubs his thumb over the tight ring of muscle and looks up at Zolf, licking his lips. “Alright, Zolf?”

Zolf grunts and lets his head fall back, unsure of what to do. Then there’s the rush of Oscar’s hair brushing against his thighs, and the slow slide of Oscar’s tongue over his arse, cool and slick, and oh. 

Oscar licks him again and hums appreciatively as Zolf grabs a handful of his hair. “Does that feel good?”

“Mmmph.” Zolf takes a shaky breath and shuts his eyes. “Yeah.” 

“Good.” Oscar presses an open-mouthed kiss between Zolf’s legs, licking wide, lazy circles over his opening. He extends a hand, and when Zolf covers it with his own, Oscar squeezes tight as he pushes his tongue inside. 

“Jesus, Oscar.” Oscar’s mouth is wet and filthy and impossibly good, and Zolf groans helplessly and spreads his thighs wider, bucking his hips as Oscar curls the tip of his tongue, pressing deeper. “You’re gonna make me— fuck, Oscar, I’m gonna—”

Oscar just moans and nuzzles closer, his whole head moving steadily against Zolf’s arse. Zolf arches off the bed and grits his teeth until his jaw screams with pain, fighting to hold on. His legs are shaking when he finally yanks Oscar up by his hair. “Stop,” he gasps. “Want to come inside you.”   

Oscar smirks as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He crawls up Zolf’s body and bends down, framing Zolf’s face with his arms. “How do you want me?” 

“On your back.” Zolf rolls them over, and Oscar wraps his legs around his hips, drawing him closer. “Just let me—” Zolf scrambles for the bottle of lube and slicks up his cock before leaning over Oscar, and Oscar goes very still, his face flushed and unguarded and dewy with sweat as Zolf slides inside him.      

Oscar is so much, and he’s everywhere, wrapped so tight around Zolf that it steals the air from his lungs. The lush heat of Oscar’s body burns through Zolf’s veins, licking up his spine and roaring in his chest, and Zolf can’t bear it, and he can’t get enough. Stay, Zolf thinks wildly, and he doesn’t really know what that means, he just wants to hold on to this good, precious ache until it’s all he has left. 

Zolf cups Oscar’s cheek, his head spinning. “I can’t believe you.” He laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. “I just, I can’t believe you.”

“Please.” Oscar sucks in a breath as he arches up into Zolf’s chest. “Please.”

Zolf rocks back, and Oscar moans as he snaps his hips up, fucking himself on Zolf’s cock and sending sparks flying across Zolf’s vision. “Oscar.” Zolf hisses through clenched teeth, already painfully close, and pulls out, squeezing the base of his cock. “Go easy on me, love. It’s been a while.” 

“Sorry, sorry!” Oscar clutches Zolf’s shoulders, as though he’s afraid he’ll pull away. “Sorry, I—”

“No, you’re fine, just—” Zolf’s breath stutters as he presses the head of his cock against Oscar’s arse. “Let’s take it slow, or I’m not gonna last.”

“You can fuck me however you like.” Oscar groans, shuddering as Zolf pushes back in. “Just don’t let me go, don’t you dare let me go.”

“I’ve got you, love.” Zolf eases back and starts fucking into Oscar, slow and deep. “I’ve got you.”

“Oh.” Oscar clenches around Zolf’s cock and angles his hips up, drawing Zolf deeper into him. “There. Right there, that’s so good.” 

Zolf finds a steady pace that leaves Oscar straining against him and gasping, each ragged exhale cresting in a desperate little moan that breaks in his throat, and there’s no way Zolf is going to last, not with Oscar wrapped around him like this, breathing shakily into his mouth. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Oscar.” Zolf squeezes his eyes shut as he feels himself rapidly coming undone, that searing, exquisite heat coiling tight in his belly with every shaky breath. “Not sure how much more I can take.” 

“I want you to come for me.” Oscar’s voice resonates against Zolf’s chest, rough and urgent. “You feel so good, so fucking good, I want you to come inside me, just like this, I want to feel you come for me.” 

Zolf braces himself against the bed and wraps his hand around Oscar’s cock as he starts fucking him at a burning pace, jerking him with quick, tight strokes. “Fuck, I’m close, I’m— Oscar.”  

“Zolf.” Oscar’s eyes go wide, and he pulls Zolf down against his neck, moaning long and hard as he clenches tight around him. And then Zolf is coming with a force that knocks the wind out of him, leaves him trembling and limp in Oscar’s arms.

Zolf can feel Oscar panting beneath his weight, and he groans as he pulls out and rolls onto his back. Oscar curls up against him, his body loose and pliant as he rests his head on Zolf’s chest, and Zolf wraps an arm around his shoulders, pressing his lips to his forehead. 

“Jesus,” Zolf says, a full minute later. 

Oscar laughs, silvery and bright, and cuddles closer. “I’m a mess! Look at me! I’ve been debauched!”

Zolf looks down at Oscar and grins. His hair is stringy and matted, his fair skin blotchy from the fading flush of his orgasm and sticky with sweat and come, but he’s beaming up at Zolf like he’s hung the moon. 

Stay, Zolf thinks again. And lying on his back with lube smeared on his thighs and a sticky, exquisite man in his arms, it’s harder to pretend he doesn’t know what that means.

“You’re a mess,” Zolf assures Oscar, kissing his forehead. My mess. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

Oscar pushes himself up on his elbow and arches an eyebrow. “For goodness sake, is that really up for debate? Did you think I still rented by the hour?” Zolf laughs, and Oscar clutches his chest, mock-outraged. “I am not some twenty-something boy who’s going to creep out of your flat in the dead of night. I am a middle-aged man who has written a very serious novel that no one has ever read or apparently even heard of, and I demand to be treated with the dignity and respect befitting someone of my advanced age and talent!” 

“Oh my god, you’re the worst!” Zolf covers his face with his hands, laughing helplessly. “The absolute worst!”

“Stop laughing at me!” Oscar groans dramatically and flops back onto the mattress. “My god, Zolf, am I to suffer endless indignities at your hands?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Zolf wipes his eyes and rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. “You are without question the least dignified person I have ever met.” 

“Oh, darling,” Oscar says, turning to face him, “you know me so well.”

Zolf pulls Oscar into his arms, and he settles against Zolf’s neck, warm and content. His head fits perfectly into the curve of Zolf’s throat, and he’s so lovely, so endlessly silly and impossibly charming, but they’re lying directly on top of a massive cold, wet spot, and they haven’t even eaten dinner yet, and that was silicone lube, wasn’t it, he should chuck the sheets in the wash before the stains set in...

Zolf sighs and rubs Oscar’s shoulders. “Let’s go get cleaned up.” He rolls out of bed and takes Oscar’s hand, hauling him to his feet.

Oscar winces as he stands, and Zolf feels an alarming rush of pride. “Could you plait my hair again? That was wonderful.”

Zolf rests a hand on the small of Oscar’s back, and Oscar drapes his arm over Zolf’s shoulders as he guides them towards the bathroom. “Of course.” Anything you want, love. Anything at all. 

Chapter Text

It’s all a bit backwards, and Oscar doesn’t know what to do. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. It’s not as though Oscar hasn’t fucked a man before dinner before. A few times he’s even stuck around afterwards. Carter comes to mind, that old, reliable bastard. When you sleep with someone enough times over the years, it starts to feel a bit domestic, despite your best intentions. Pulling your jeans back up and ordering takeaway and rummaging around Carter’s atrocious pantry for a sticky bottle of wine—it was easy, when you’d already gotten what you came for. When you didn’t really care.  

But now Oscar is showering in Zolf’s impeccably clean bathroom as Zolf putters around in a faded grey bathrobe, grumbling good-naturedly about how bloody tall Oscar is, and how none of Zolf’s clothes will possibly fit, and Oscar cares, and he doesn’t know what to do.   

Oscar ducks under the showerhead, closing his eyes as the water sluices over his face. You’ll find a way to make it work. You always do. There had been men back in the day who wanted something more than a quick shag in the toilets, who paid in advance and brought Oscar back to their flat and tried to make a night of it. He’d played at being agreeable and domestic then; he can certainly do it now. 

Oscar shuts off the shower and steps out to face a naked, smirking dwarf, his robe folded neatly in his hands. “Here,” Zolf says, shoving the bathrobe at Oscar along with a towel. “I can loan you some pants, if you like, but I’m pretty sure this is the only thing I own that might cover your ridiculously overgrown body.”

Oscar smirks back at Zolf as he towels off his hair. “I never wear pants if I can possibly help it.” He breathes in Zolf’s rich, spicy scent as he pulls on the robe, the worn fabric buttery soft against his skin. It fits rather well, all things considered—the sleeves fall just past his elbows, and the hem swishes pleasantly around his thighs. “I might have to steal this from you,” he says, admiring his reflection. “I rather like what it does for my legs.”

Zolf laughs as he tugs Oscar out of the bathroom. “You idiot.” He pushes Oscar onto the bed and settles behind him. “Let’s fix your hair.”

Oscar has done countless things with countless men, but nothing compares to the quiet intimacy of leaning against Zolf’s broad chest as he combs his fingers through Oscar’s hair. Zolf’s hands are as warm and comforting as the faded wool quilt covering his bed, and Oscar presses against him, lightheaded and giddy and painfully in love. “You’re so lovely,” Oscar murmurs into Zolf’s shoulder.

“Uhm.” Zolf hesitates for a moment, his breath stuttering against Oscar’s ear, then gently peels Oscar off his chest. “Thanks, I guess. Look down for me.”

Oscar obediently drops his chin, and Zolf begins plaiting his hair. He feels, absurdly, like the hero of an epic romance, facing some impossible test to win the heart of an enigmatic prince. What do I have to do to keep this? When Zolf ties off the plait, Oscar pulls him forward, wrapping himself in Zolf’s arms. Let me prove myself to you. 

“Thank you,” Oscar says, tipping his head back to look up at him. 

“For the plait?” Zolf kisses him, and Oscar hums with delight. “Or the sex?”

“Both.” Oscar smiles as Zolf kisses him again. “Do you want to order takeaway?”

Zolf grunts dismissively and scowls, and oh, Oscar loves him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can cook.”

Zolf’s flat looks exactly like him, sensible and lived-in and rustic, and Oscar can’t stop smiling. It’s you, he thinks, taking in the plush corduroy armchair, the vintage Wizard of Oz poster, the bay window overlooking the ocean. It’s so you, and it’s so lovely. Worn paperbacks, faded records, and a glittering assortment of keepsakes line the shelves of a handsome mahogany bookcase, and Oscar smiles to himself as he imagines Sasha picking out Zolf’s furniture. Look, mate, you’ve got to put your Campbells somewhere. This one was custom-built for some rich wanker’s library in 1840 by Gillows of Lancaster and London…

Oscar flicks through Zolf’s record collection, trying to make sense of how he might fit into Zolf’s neat, homely life. Oscar can be charming, to be sure, but he’s also messy and obnoxious and self-centered and difficult. He can be difficult while sitting in Carter’s manky flat, drinking rubbish wine and eating rubbish takeaway and watching rubbish television with a frankly rubbish person. But not here, not while browsing through the discography of Judy Garland, his heart pounding in his throat as he watches Zolf slice a pumpkin into perfect little wedges in his cozy kitchen.  

I can be easy for you. Oscar finds the candy pink cover of Judy in Love and slips the album off the shelf. I can show you that I’m worth your while. “Do you mind if I put this on?” 

Zolf looks up and grins. “Of course not.” 

Oscar slides the record onto Zolf’s turntable and lowers the needle. As the bright, brassy opening starts to play, he settles in at the dining table to watch Zolf cook.

Dear, when you smiled at me, I heard a melody
It haunted me from the start
Something inside of me started a symphony
Zing! went the strings of my heart

“Tell me about Judy,” Oscar says, toying with the end of his plait.

Zolf slides a tray of pumpkin slices into the oven and shrugs. “I’ve loved her since I was a kid.”

“It always starts with The Wizard of Oz, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Zolf’s face darkens as he starts chopping an onion. “I grew up in a mining town, and mining sucks, and I wanted nothin’ more than to get the hell out. Don’t think I need to explain why The Wizard of Oz might appeal to me.”

Oscar frowns and sidles up to Zolf, resting his hands on Zolf’s shoulders. “I was obsessed with her slippers. When I was little, I once stole a pair of my mother’s shoes and absolutely slathered them with red craft glitter.”

Zolf snorts, and Oscar’s heart melts as Zolf relaxes against him. “You would. How did she react when she found out?”

Oscar wrinkles his nose behind Zolf’s back. That’s not a story for tonight, my love. “Oh, you know. It was the 80s,” he says lightly. “What was it about Judy, for you?”

“It’s always been her voice,” Zolf says dreamily, scooping the diced onion into a bright red pot on the stove. “When she sang ‘Over the Rainbow,’ she sounded so plaintive, and I—I dunno, I’d never heard anyone sing like that before. That emotion she brings to every song.”

“Like her heart had been broken, even when she was seventeen.” 

“Yeah.” Zolf sighs as he stirs the pot, the frying onions sizzling alongside Judy Garland’s vivid voice. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

This is it, my great romance,
I want to hang on to this one big chance
You’re mine, my loneliness dies
I feel fine, with stars in my eyes

Oscar winds his arms loosely around Zolf’s shoulders, humming as he sways them along to the song, and Zolf shakes his head, laughing. He sets his spoon aside and squeezes Oscar’s arms before brushing him off. “You are so annoying!”

“I know, I know, but tell me you don’t find me a little bit endearing.” Oscar nudges Zolf’s arm as he chops up a chili pepper. “Can I ask you a deeply personal question?”

Zolf raises his eyebrows as he drops the pepper in a mortar, then adds a handful of garlic cloves and a chunk of ginger. “I suppose, just give me a minute. Might get a bit loud.”  

Oscar waits until Zolf finishes bashing the ingredients into a paste, admiring the swell of his biceps beneath his shirt. “Do you prefer Wizard of Oz Judy or A Star Is Born Judy?”

“Oh, boy.” Zolf blows air out of his cheeks as he scoops the contents of the mortar into the pot. “I mean, The Wizard of Oz is my favourite movie—”

“Why, I had absolutely no idea!” 

“Piss off. Open this for me, will you?” Zolf hands Oscar a tin of plum tomatoes and a tin opener, then selects a few jars off his spice rack and starts spooning little golden seeds into a spice grinder. “So yeah, The Wizard of Oz is my favourite movie, but I love how her voice changed as she aged. There’s a depth to her performances later in her career that, I dunno, really speaks to me.”

“I completely agree. Judy Garland is so compelling in no small part because of her lived experiences, and those experiences really animated her voice as she aged.” Oscar pauses to crank open the tin as Zolf grinds the spices. “I can’t stand it when people criticize her performance in Judy at Carnegie Hall. Her voice is so dynamic and strong, but it’s also a little broken by the weight of years gone by, and there’s this rough, rusty edge that refuses to be silenced. You can feel the tragedy and joy of her life in every note she sings, and it’s that raw, expressive power that makes that album so extraordinary.”

Zolf regards Oscar for a moment and smiles, soft and slow, before pulling him down for a kiss.

Whether you are here or yonder,
Whether you are false or true
Whether you remain or wander,
I’m growing fonder of you

“You’re unbelievable,” Zolf murmurs as he lets go.

Oscar stumbles a little and laughs weakly, his breath catching on the overwhelming, desperate affection flooding his chest. “In the worst way, I hope.”

“In every way.” Zolf picks up the bowl of the spice grinder and offers it to Oscar. “Smell this.”

Oscar inhales slowly, savouring that spicy, green scent he’s come to love more than any other. “Coriander,” he says breathlessly. “And cumin.” 

Zolf nods approvingly. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s incredible.” Oscar sets the bowl aside and pulls Zolf into his arms. “It smells like you.”

Zolf looks up at him, the warm light in his eyes belying the surly twist of his mouth, and Oscar knows his rough, rusty edges will never really soften, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. The record hisses as the A-side of the album ends, and Zolf reaches up to cup Oscar’s face. “Go flip over the record, and I’ll heat up some saké for us.”

If Zolf is honest with himself, he’s been mulling this recipe over in his head ever since Oscar disappeared from Coriander last week. Zolf had been plagued with memories of Oscar’s face glowing as he ate spicy, comforting vegetarian dishes, the kind of food that warms you from within, leaving your cheeks flushed and bright. Oscar would love kabocha, Zolf had thought, slipping one of the glossy green pumpkins into his basket at the market. Maybe in a curry, with cinnamon and loads of other spices, and chickpeas for protein, and spinach for iron, he looks so pale lately…  

And now Oscar is in his flat, wrapped in Zolf’s ratty, comically short bathrobe, and Zolf is cooking for him, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

Judy in Love ends, and Oscar puts on Judy at Carnegie Hall. His hands grow more and more expressive the deeper they get into the carafe of saké, and as Judy tells her story about the French hairdresser, he clutches his chest. “God, I love this part!” He drains his glass and strikes a dramatic pose. “‘Now the first thing we must do is you must look nothing, nothing like Judy Garland, nothing like yourself!’”

“‘And I said,’” Zolf chimes in, “‘Well, don’t you think I should look a little, uhh—’”

“‘No, he said! No, that would be disastrous, we’ll change you completely!’” Oscar throws back his head and laughs. “God, she’s brilliant!” 

Don’t go back to London. Oscar’s smile lights up Zolf’s dull, lifeless flat, transforms another dreary Saturday in Wynsbury into one of the most magical nights of his life. Please, let me keep this, for once. 

“Ohh, I forgot about this song.” Oscar leans against the dining table like it’s a grand piano and starts to sing along to the album. “You go to my head, and you linger like a haunting refrain, and I find you spinning round in my brain, like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.”

His voice isn’t beautiful like Judy’s, but it’s clear and bright and resonant. “You can sing,” Zolf says, delighted.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Oscar flashes a conspiratorial smile. “I used to be the lead singer of a terrible band.” 

Zolf laughs incredulously as he folds the roasted pumpkin into the curry. “For goodness sake, how many lives have you lived?”

“Darling, something tells me I haven’t lived half as many lives as you,” Oscar says slyly, scooping the plate of naan off the counter and setting it on the table.   

Zolf shakes his head and busies himself ladling the curry into two bowls. That’s not a story for tonight, love. “What kind of music did you play? And what were you called?”

“Oh, lord.” Oscar sits down at the table and presses his hand to his forehead. “Remember, it was 1999, and I was an honest-to-god hardworking rent boy with a side gig at a fetish club.”

“Alright, Oscar.” Zolf smiles encouragingly as he hands Oscar a bowl of curry. “Out with it.”

“We were a queercore band called The Slags.” Oscar winces. “I know, I know, it’s a bit on the nose.”

Zolf shakes his head as he slides into the chair beside Oscar and rests a hand on his knee. “That’s brilliant.” 

“Well, we were very camp, and very bad. But we were always in on the joke, and our politics were good, at least.” Oscar takes a massive bite of curry and leans against Zolf’s shoulder, practically vibrating with happiness. “Zolf, this is extraordinary. I swear, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect dinner.”

I made it just for you, Zolf doesn’t say. I know exactly what you like, I’ll cook all your favourite things, just stay with me. “You’re so easy to please,” he says instead. He means to be flippant, but it comes out softer than he intended, husky and a little raw. 

Oscar looks up at him, his wondrous smile scrunching up his face. “I’m so glad you think so."

As Judy sings her encore, Zolf’s eyes begin to droop. “Go get ready for bed,” Oscar says, gathering up the dishes. “I can do the washing up.”

“Just leave them,” Zolf says, yawning. “I’ll take care of it.”

“For goodness sake, I’m not completely useless.” Oscar switches on the faucet and starts scrubbing the pot. “You did laundry and cooked and put up with me all night. Let me do the washing up.” 

Zolf sighs and rests his head in his hand. “Fine, fine, alright, you stubborn bastard, just let me supervise.”

You made me love you
I didn’t wanna do it, I didn’t wanna do it
You made me love you
And all the time you knew it, I guess you always knew it

Zolf is a terrible backseat dishwasher, but Oscar really isn’t completely useless, and soon enough everything is squared away to Zolf’s satisfaction. It’s hours before Oscar would normally even consider going to bed, but he’s going to bed with Zolf, and he can be easy, he can prove that he’s not a total disaster.

They settle into bed, Zolf with his dog-eared copy of When Passions Collide, Oscar with his brand new copy of Persuasion, and spend a quiet half hour reading. Oscar lingers over Anne’s recollections in the third chapter, struck by his own uncertain future after the most shockingly domestic evening of his entire adult life.  

Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently from what she had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her; but she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good.

What might be considered proper depends on an individual’s identity and circumstances. Oscar chuckles to himself, chagrined. I get it, Eldarion, but my god are you as pretentious as ever.     

How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence! She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.

Sometimes Oscar wonders where he’d be if his parents hadn’t shipped him off to boarding school in England, if he hadn’t gotten kicked out for shagging his roommate, if he hadn’t left home at seventeen and never looked back. 

“I imagine,” Eldarion had once told him with a delicate flick of her wrist, “you’d have been so inconceivably boring that I’d have banned you from my office hours.”  

And god only knows where Oscar would be if he hadn’t seen himself in his glamorous English literature professor his first year at uni, if he hadn’t gone to her office hours after hearing students whisper the words “trans” and “lesbian” like a dirty secret. If he hadn’t found someone who saw past his brittle arrogance and understood what it was like to be afraid.

Oscar was old enough to be a graduate student when he finally matriculated, and after so many years living on the margins, he’d forgotten how to be anything but a filthy, jaded queer. He was terrified of his classmates’ sparkling potential and ambition, and disgusted by their naivete. “I don’t belong here,” he said, after telling Eldarion he was thinking about dropping out. “I don’t know how to do this anymore.” 

Eldarion had looked at him for a long moment, her exquisite face hard and implacable. “I don’t belong here either,” she finally said, dismissing Oscar with a wave of her hand. “And yet we find a way. We always do.” 

And that was that. Oscar would stay in school, and Eldarion would introduce him to her astonishing network of brilliant queers, and he would carve out a place for himself in this unforgiving world. Because while Oscar never really learned how to be respectable, he has always known how to survive. 

For years, Oscar thought he’d do anything to avoid a quiet, domestic life. He remembers sneering at the idea of love as he shagged any man who looked at him just so he’d have somewhere to sleep at night. So of course he fell in love with a handsome small town baker who keeps a clean house and reads silly romance novels. When has Oscar ever failed to defy expectations?

I learned romance as I grew older. Oscar glances over at Zolf and smiles. The domestic sequel to my undomesticated youth.

Zolf catches him staring and clears his throat. “Azu says, uhm.” He nods at Persuasion. “She says you like Jane Austen.”

“I love Jane Austen.” Oscar sets his book aside and curls up next to Zolf, resting his head on his shoulder. “She’s the Harrison Campbell of the Regency period.”

“No shit. I—” Zolf yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “Sorry, it’s just—”

“It’s alright. We can talk about it some other time.” Oscar shuts off the light, then winds his arm around Zolf’s waist and pulls him close. “Now you’re going to let me spoon you, and you’re going to like it. You have absolutely no choice in the matter.”

“Alright, love.” Zolf laughs tiredly and covers Oscar’s hand with his own. “Whatever you say.”

Chapter Text

Oscar thrashes like a fish on a line when he’s trying to fall asleep, twisting the sheets into a snarled mass and waking Zolf every time he flounders for a more comfortable position on the mattress.

“Alright, Oscar?” Zolf finally asks, a little waspishly.

“Sorry!” Oscar’s voice is soft and contrite in Zolf’s ear as he nestles closer. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m so sorry, go back to sleep.” 

And suddenly Zolf can’t find it in himself to care that Oscar has ruined his night’s sleep, not with Oscar pressed against his side, his arm draped over Zolf’s waist. Zolf relaxes into the warmth of Oscar’s body, and it’s so simple. You’re here, and you’ll be here in the morning. Zolf can have this, Oscar’s easy affection, he can close his eyes and remember what it means to share a bed with someone, even after all these years alone. Oscar hums softly as he rests his head against Zolf’s shoulder, and for a moment Zolf misses Bosz so desperately that he can’t breathe through the ache in his chest.

Bosz was always so bloody cold, and she used to sidle up to Zolf while he was keeping watch and lean against his shoulder. “I hate it here,” she’d say, and Zolf would laugh and shake his head as he pulled her inside his coat, because no one loved the ocean more than Bosz.

Even after sailing together for over a decade, Zolf and Bosz had never tried to put a name on their relationship. Bosz had no interest in falling in love again after her partner died, and at the time Zolf couldn’t imagine ever loving someone as passionately as Bosz had loved Pabni. But Zolf had loved Bosz like she loved the ocean, with all the joy and frustration and wonder that came from their life at sea. She was his obnoxious American goblin, and he was her prickly English dwarf, and that was enough to get Zolf through the days when the shadows at the edges of his mind threatened to drag him under. Because Bosz always knew, somehow, and at night she’d slip into his bunk and rest her head on his shoulder, chatting softly about this and that until he fell asleep, safe in the knowledge that Bosz would be by his side in the morning.

Sometimes Zolf wonders how he can stand to live near the ocean after it stole Bosz away from him. But when he walks along the shore and looks out on the water, he sees her everywhere—her devilish grin, fierce as the wind whipping his cheeks, her red eyes glittering like a late summer sunset over the bay. Bosz had lived for the thrill of the ocean, and when Zolf listens to the waves hissing over the sand, soft as her raspy voice against his ear, he knows it’s the closest he’ll ever come to having her back by his side.

When Zolf wakes, tangled in bedding and Oscar’s long limbs, he turns to look at the ridiculous man sprawled across his bed, his throat thick with unexpected emotion. You’re here. Dark stubble rasps against Zolf’s fingertips as he smooths back the hair curling against Oscar’s cheeks. My insufferable Irishman. He’s so artlessly beautiful in the misty light of dawn, with his sleep-warm skin and soft lips. About as far from Bosz’s sharp little face and rough hands as Zolf could possibly imagine, but Oscar lights up Zolf’s world in much the same way that she did.

Oscar stirs against him, nuzzling his face into Zolf’s shoulder. “Mornin’,” Zolf says softly.

“Nuh-uh,” Oscar mumbles, scrunching his eyes closed. “Tamasa.”

“Sorry?”

Oscar snorts, short and percussive, and buries his face in the pillow. 

Zolf bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “You awake?”

There’s a long silence, and then Oscar begins to snore, a deep, sonorous rumble that reverberates through the mattress. Zolf sits up, shaking with silent laughter, and begins putting on his prosthesis. What on earth have I gotten myself into?  

Oscar is sitting at his favourite table in Coriander with Judy Garland’s voice filling the air, and his pen flows over the pages of his notebook as though it has a mind of its own. The winds blow colder, and suddenly you’re older, he writes. The winds blow colder, and suddenly you’re older. The winds blow colder, and suddenly you’re older…  

A warm hand shakes Oscar’s shoulder, and he jolts awake. “Wassat!”

“Hey, hey, sorry, it’s me.” Zolf rubs Oscar’s arm soothingly. “Just thought I should wake you.”

“Uhm,” Oscar croaks, blinking blearily up at Zolf. “What’s the time?”

“Noon.” Zolf’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he bites his lip. “Sleep well?”

“Oh my god.” Oscar bolts upright and scrubs his hands over his face. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to—I am so, so sorry.” Cool air washes over his bare chest, and horror rushes through him as he realises he has no idea where he left his clothes. “Let me just—god, I’m so sorry, I’ll get out of your flat, if I could just find my bloody clothes—”

Zolf dissolves into laughter. “For goodness sake, Oscar, it’s alright. You were tired, it’s fine.”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, laughing weakly. “What must you think of me, Zolf?”

“Did you know,” Zolf says, wiping his eyes, “that you snore like a freight train?”

“Oh my god!” Oscar shoves Zolf away and flops back on the bed. “I do not!”

“Yes, you absolutely do.” Zolf nudges Oscar over and lies down beside him, propping his head on his arm. “And your feet are like ice.”

Oscar pulls the covers over his head. “I have bad circulation!”

“Well, keep your damn feet away from me.” Zolf yanks the covers back down, grinning. “I cannot believe you slept in until noon.” 

“Believe me, I had absolutely no intention of humiliating myself so completely.” Oscar wraps his arms around Zolf’s neck, smiling ruefully. “But is there any way I can convince you to come back to bed?”

“God, you’re the worst!” Zolf laughs as he allows Oscar to pull him close. “Have you nothing better to do with your day?”

“Well, I was planning to do some writing.” Oscar slips a hand under Zolf’s jumper, running his fingers along the waistband of his jeans. “But right now I can think of a much better way to spend my time.”

“Uhm.” The easy warmth of the moment dissipates as Zolf freezes in Oscar’s arms. “Yeah, uhm, sure.” 

Oscar frowns and pulls back, alarmed by the unease crowding in Zolf’s eyes, his rigid, squared shoulders. “Hey,” he says, touching Zolf’s cheek. “Everything alright?”

Zolf nods stiffly and sets his jaw. “Of course.”

“Zolf.” Oscar searches Zolf’s carefully impassive face, unconvinced. “If I ask you for something you don’t want, I need you to tell me.” 

Zolf nods stiffly again. “I know.”

Oscar holds the silence for a long moment as he takes Zolf’s hand. Alright, my love. Let’s take this slow. “If this is all you want,” Oscar says, pressing Zolf’s palm against his chest, “this is enough for me.”

Zolf’s face softens. “It’s not like that. I…sex is complicated for me.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Hard to explain. Right now, it’s—I don’t want to do what we did last night. But I want to touch you.”

“Like this?” Oscar holds Zolf’s gaze as he guides his hand over his chest and down his flank. 

“Yeah.” Zolf sucks in a shaky breath. “If that’s what you want.”

“Zolf.” Oscar rolls over Zolf, framing his face with his arms. “I want your hands on my body like I’ve never wanted anything in my life.”

“You mad bastard,” Zolf murmurs, and kisses him.

If this is all you want, this is more than enough. Zolf strokes up and down Oscar’s back as they kiss, his tongue sweeping Oscar’s mouth, and it’s so good, the scratch of his beard, the way his hands linger over Oscar’s skin like he’s memorising the contours of his body. Zolf slides his hands over Oscar’s arse and between his legs, caressing the tender skin along his inner thighs, and fuck. 

Oscar realises he’s getting hard against Zolf’s stomach and shuts his eyes, trying to pull himself together. “Sorry,” he mumbles, pulling away. But Zolf tightens his grip on Oscar’s hips, and Oscar feels the curve of a smile beneath his lips. 

“Are you always like this?” Zolf asks.

“Not always,” Oscar sighs. “But you’re not making this easy on me.”

“You can touch yourself,” Zolf says softly. “I’ll allow it.”

Oscar arches an eyebrow as he pushes himself upright. “You’ll allow it,” he repeats slowly.  

“I’ll allow it.” Zolf’s eyes darken as he takes Oscar’s hand and wraps it around his cock. “Because you can’t help yourself, can you?”

“No.” Oscar shudders as he starts stroking his cock, Zolf’s hand rough and strong around his own. “No, I can’t.”

“Forty-three years old, and you sleep in til noon, and you snore like a freight train, and you can’t help yourself.” Zolf cups Oscar’s cheek, chuckling softly. “What am I meant to do with you?”

“Anything you want.” Oscar’s face warms as he tightens his grip on his cock, and he turns into Zolf’s touch, trying to hide his flushed cheeks against his palm. “Anything at all.” 

Zolf tips Oscar’s chin forward and hums, soft and pleased. “You’re blushing.” 

Oscar smiles sheepishly as Zolf combs his fingers through the remnants of Oscar’s plait until his hair falls in loose waves around his face. “Still think I look ridiculous?”

Zolf shakes his head as he runs his hand down the full length of Oscar’s body. “You look good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You want me to touch you.”

Oscar shivers as Zolf strokes his thumb along his hip crease. “I always want you to touch me.”

“I know. It wasn’t a question. Stop touching yourself.” Oscar’s breath hitches as he lets go of his cock, and Zolf sits up, shucking off his jumper before pulling Oscar into his chest. “How d’you want me to touch you?” He palms Oscar’s arse, dragging his hips forward until his cock is flush against Zolf’s stomach, and Oscar gasps at the rough friction of Zolf’s jeans against his sensitive skin. “Like that?”

"Yes." Oscar clutches Zolf’s shoulders, breathless with the desire for Zolf to kiss him, to touch him, to call him love. “Please.” 

Zolf smirks up at him, and Oscar presses closer, desperate to keep that proud light in Zolf’s eyes. “You want me to go slow,” Zolf murmurs. “You want this to last.”

“Yes.” Oscar inhales sharply as Zolf traces the divots of his spine with calloused fingertips. More than you know.

Zolf lies back, pulling Oscar down with him, and rocks his thigh between Oscar’s legs. Oscar cries out, his hips snapping forward. “That’s it, love,” Zolf says roughly, settling his hands possessively on Oscar’s hips. “Go ahead. I’ve got you.”

Oscar grips the rail on the headboard as he grinds against Zolf’s thigh, and Zolf soothes his hands over Oscar’s back, gentle and lingering. The denim grows damp against Oscar’s skin as his cock leaks all over Zolf’s jeans, the searing pleasure teetering on the knife’s edge of pain, and he moans into Zolf’s neck as that aching heat begins to build between his legs. “Zolf,” Oscar breathes as a warm flush blooms over his chest and licks up his spine. “Zolf.”

Zolf digs his fingers into Oscar’s arse, stilling him. “I love it when you’re like this,” he murmurs in Oscar’s ear. 

Oscar shuts his eyes, his chest heaving. “Like what?” 

“You know what.” Oscar whimpers as Zolf rocks him against his thigh, slow and steady. “You don’t let people see you as anything less than perfect, do you? With your posh clothes and your pretty words and your lovely smile. No one gets to see you like this.” He drags Oscar’s cock along his leg, and Oscar moans, collapsing onto Zolf’s chest. “You gonna make a mess of my sheets again?” 

“Could do,” Oscar gasps. 

“Let’s see it, then.” Zolf guides Oscar through another long, lazy roll, then loosens his grip, smoothing his hands over Oscar’s arse. “Wanna see you come apart for me. Oscar Wilde, intellectual, literary novelist, toast of London, humping my leg like an untrained dog, show me what a mess you really are.”

“Fuck, Zolf.” Oscar ruts frantically against Zolf’s thigh, losing himself to the desperate, thrilling rush coursing through his body, pressing tight in his chest. “God, you don’t know what you do to me, I can’t— god, Zolf, you have no idea, I’ve never—I— Zolf. ”

Oscar comes on a long, keening exhale, back arching as Zolf steadies his hips with a bruising grip, his eyes never leaving Oscar’s face. Oscar slumps forward, sticky and panting, and Zolf pulls him into his arms. “So good for me, love,” Zolf says breathlessly.

Oscar presses his face into Zolf’s shoulder, sore and embarrassed and shy. Oscar is supposed to be good in bed—he has a reputation, for goodness sake—but he always has the mortifying urge to apologise whenever Zolf touches him. I’m usually good at this, I swear, he wants to say. I usually last longer, I usually look better, I’m usually more controlled. 

“Uhm,” Oscar says instead. “That was, uhm, that was good.” 

Zolf just hums and strokes Oscar’s hair, and Oscar keeps his head tucked under Zolf’s chin as he struggles to catch his breath and gather the remnants of his pride.

Oscar spends a long time curled against Zolf’s chest, uncharacteristically quiet. It’s alright, Zolf thinks, smiling into Oscar’s hair. You can hide for as long as you like.

But eventually Oscar lifts his head and grins, his sly, seductive confidence sliding back into place. “So,” he says, tossing sweaty hair out of his face. “You think I have a lovely smile?”

“Yeah, I do.” Zolf traces the lines framing Oscar’s smile. “I love these.” 

Oscar’s smile fades, and he lets out a horrified squeak as he hides his face in Zolf’s chest again. “My wrinkles?” 

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Zolf heaves a sigh as he ruffles Oscar’s hair. “Your smile lines.” 

Oscar lifts his head and glares at Zolf. “I hate them.”

“Don’t say that. I love them. And these.” He touches the crow’s feet at the corners of Oscar’s eyes. “They’re lovely.”

“No, they’re the worst,” Oscar insists, scowling. “They make me look old.” 

Zolf frames Oscar’s face with his hands, stroking his thumbs under Oscar’s eyes. The skin is softer there, fine and delicate as washed silk, and Zolf feels the memory of Oscar’s boundless joy etched in those lovely lines, and the promise of memories to come. “They make me want to make you smile.”

Oscar smiles then, slow and shy, and Zolf’s breath catches in his throat as Oscar’s cheeks dimple beneath his hands. “Look at you,” Zolf whispers.

Oscar’s smile sharpens into a smirk as he nuzzles against Zolf’s palm. “Do go on.” 

“Absolutely not.” Zolf kisses him briskly. “You’re insufferable enough as it is.”

Oscar kisses him back, chuckling warmly into it. “Alright, alright.” He pulls back, grimacing at the stickiness between them. “I suppose this is as good a reason to get up as any. Do you happen to have any idea where I might be able to find my clothes?”

“Washed ‘em for you. They’re in the bathroom.” Zolf stands up and peels off his jeans. “I was thinking…um, have you got any dinner plans? Azu and Sasha are coming by later, so if you wanted to stick around for that, y’know, that’d be fine.”

“Yes, of course, I’d love that,” Oscar says excitedly, tumbling out of bed. “Are they going to give me the ‘what are your intentions with our Zolf’ talk?”

“Don’t be daft,” Zolf grumbles, already dreading Azu’s knowing looks and Sasha’s smug smile. “Are you any good at cards? Sasha gets very competitive.”

Chapter Text

Oscar wanders into the kitchen, clean and clothed and desperate for coffee, to find Zolf sitting at the kitchen table, peeling carrots. Billie Holiday’s voice drifts through the speakers, plaintive and sweet alongside the rain pattering against the window. “Do you ever stop cooking?” Oscar asks, impossibly fond.

“Oh, sod off.” Zolf sets aside his paring knife and looks up at Oscar. “Can I get you some coffee?” 

A frisson of excitement rushes through Oscar as he sits across from this extraordinary man in his extraordinary home, and he wonders when this neat, homely life became the most miraculous thing he’s ever seen. “Coffee would be brilliant.” 

Zolf stands up, then hesitates. “I’ve only got a moka pot, but if you want proper espresso, it’s no bother, I could run downstairs and—”

“Zolf, please, whatever you have on hand is perfect.” Oscar reaches out to rest a hand on Zolf’s arm. “And if it’s not too much trouble, is there any chance I could have some of that lovely curry you made last night?”  

Zolf grins as though Oscar has said something terribly clever, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Course you can.” 

As Zolf putters about preparing coffee and reheating the curry, Oscar nods at the carrots, onions, and potatoes piled on the kitchen table. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nahh, you’re alright. I know you’ve got stuff to do.” Zolf looks up from the stove. “We don’t have to listen to music, you know. Or we could put something else on, if you’d prefer.” 

“Goodness, no. I love Billie Holiday.” The only music Oscar listens to while working is loud and gritty and decidedly unromantic, but like hell is he going to request someone like Patti Smith from this man with an honest-to-god shrine to Judy Garland. 

Zolf hands Oscar a warm bowl of curry, then hurries back to the stove as the moka pot begins to hiss. “Splash of milk for your coffee?”

“Yes, thank you, that’d be perfect.” Oscar fiddles with the buckles on his bag, unsure of what to do. There’s no way he’s going to get any real work done today, even with his looming deadlines and Marie’s increasingly terse messages about his progress on Bad Sons. He doesn’t have his notes or his laptop or the book he’s reviewing, and he’s wearing all the wrong clothes for serious writing, and besides, Zolf needs the kitchen table to prepare for dinner tonight, there’s nowhere near enough room to set up a proper workspace—

“Alright, Oscar?” Zolf frowns as he sets a steaming mug at Oscar’s elbow. “D’you need more space? I could clear off the table.” 

“No, no, none of that. I don’t want to get in your way, is all.” Oscar takes a long sip of gloriously strong coffee and lets his mind settle around the sharp, rich heat warming his belly. We find a way. We always do. He can afford to lose a day of work; he’ll just have to make it up tonight. “Thank you so much for this. It’s wonderful.”

Zolf settles in across the table and resumes peeling his mountain of vegetables, and Oscar takes out his notebook and pen before slipping on his glasses. His phone flashes, catching his eye, and he opens up his messages to find a text from Eldarion. 

I’ve heard reports that you never left Coriander yesterday. I cannot believe you spent the night with someone.

heard reports from who

Sasha, of course.

what 

how do you know sasha

Did you think you were the only stray I ever picked up off the streets of London?

i swear to god you collect queer kids like pokémon cards

What’s a pokémon?

nevermind

it was the best sex i’ve ever had

i’m still at his flat

don’t tell marie

what do i do

it was horrible

he goes to bed at 9 pm

i couldn’t sleep all night

apparently i snore

he let me sleep in until noon 

i don’t think you understand

he washed my clothes and bought me a razor

do i leave the razor

do i take it with me

what do i do

 Hold on, let me ask Marie.

why do you do this to me

Oscar’s phone immediately buzzes with a text from Marie, and he sighs as he swipes over to read it.

You really weren’t supposed to fall in love with him, you know. He was supposed to inspire your next novel and send you crying back to London with a first draft.

i think i’ve got it

re: writing isaac as an unreliable narrator 

he’s substantively inspired by zolf but constructed vis-a-vis my own biases and anxieties

which is to say, i need to project my biases and anxieties through isaac 

not on isaac

Never durst poet touch a pen to write / Until his ink were temper’d with Love’s sighs

fuck you

Leave the razor, preferably where Zolf will see it. 

noted

Oscar flips to a blank page in his notebook and writes, Isaac constructed vis-a-vis my own biases and anxieties, project though the character not on the character. He bites his lip, resisting the urge to tap his pen against the page. What would that entail…

What would allow Isaac to delude himself into thinking he could be with Shane? 

Love is insidious—a cup of coffee with just the right amount of milk, the scent of his detergent on your clothes, the easy silence as you sit together at his kitchen table. 

Something domestic that enables him to envision this little family, this stable home he’s always wanted. 

Isaac cooks for Shane. Something simple—chana masala (What do you need to make chana masala? How do you make chana masala?). Shane works on his song. Do they listen to music? 

Amy Winehouse is the Judy Garland of the ’00s. 

Oh my god I have to actually write the fucking song.

Bad Sons

Good boys/Bad sons

False hope/true love

Good boys, bad sons, false hope, true love

All of the above

Good boys, bad sons, false hope, true love
I’ll take all of the above until I change my mind
Hard truth, soft touch, right place, wrong time

London is the scent of overflowing rubbish bins and rotting food, sticky floors and dirty windows, a stale wind whispering empty promises in your ear like a prayer. 

It’s hard to breathe this city air
That whispers to you everywhere
Come on, my love, it’s getting late
I promise you it’s only fair

You’re too good for me (A/N because they want different things in life, I think this lyric would be a bit sarcastic)

Of all the boys I loved you best
But you can’t force me to regret
All the choices I made
All the times that I strayed

Differences between poetry and songwriting—differences in metre, like—

A hand slides around the back of Oscar’s neck. “Hey,” Zolf says in his ear. 

“Ohmygod!” Oscar jolts, slashing his pen across the page. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t—I just—” Zolf snickers, and Oscar rolls his eyes as he yanks off his glasses. “You’re such an ass.”

“Yeah, I know.” Zolf gestures at the oven. “I just put the galbi-jjim in to braise, and we’ve got about three hours til the others get here. Want to watch A Star Is Born?”

Oscar is a professional literary and culture critic. He flirted with Zolf for weeks by making asinine comments about Harrison Campbell novels and seduced Zolf last night with his commentary on Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall. He is, in many ways, the most insufferable person Zolf has met in his entire life. 

Zolf should have known Oscar would never shut up while watching a movie.

“I love that Esther is a little older when the events of the movie begin,” Oscar says, after Judy sings “The Man that Got Away.” “And that she’s already gone through it just to get to where she is with her band. I wish that the film had been a bit more cognizant of that, though, because Judy is such a mature actress, even though I believe she was only thirty-two when this was filmed, and she brings such a tremendous gravitas to the role, which really comes to the fore in her performance of that song. But you get the sense that they were forcing her into this ingénue role, and I just think—”

“Oscar.” Zolf picks up the remote and pauses the movie. “D’you mind?”

“Oh.” Oscar’s face falls. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s just…” Zolf isn’t being an ass, he’s not, everyone knows it’s rude to talk during a movie. “I can’t hear the dialogue. Could you maybe just…pause the movie?”

“No, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll be quiet.” Oscar slips his arm through Zolf’s and presses against his side, and Zolf is absolutely being an ass, of course he messed this up, now Oscar will never want to watch a movie with him ever again. 

“You don’t, uhm, you don’t have to be quiet.” Zolf takes Oscar’s hand. “I, uhm. I like your commentary.”

Oscar smiles softly and leans over Zolf to swipe the remote off the armrest. “You don’t have to say that.” He hits play and settles back against the sofa, pulling Zolf’s hand into his lap. “I’ll be good for the rest of the movie. I promise.”

Oscar is good for the rest of the movie. He squeezes Zolf’s hand whenever he laughs and strokes his thumb over Zolf’s knuckles at all the moments that tighten Zolf’s throat, and Zolf spends the entire time wondering what’s on Oscar’s mind and feeling like a complete and utter prick.

Oscar only pauses the movie once—during the scene on the balcony after the premiere of Esther’s debut film.

Norman: You’ve come along the road as far as you should. Let’s leave it that way.

Esther: Norman, don’t you know how I feel about you?

Norman: Yes, yes I do.

Esther: Well, then, d-don’t you know that nothing about you could make any difference?

Norman: It’s too late.

Esther: No, it isn’t, it is not—

Norman: It is, I tell you.

Esther: Norman, there’s nothing you can tell me—

Norman: Now listen to me—

Esther: I love you. I—

Norman: I destroy everything I touch. I always have.

Esther: No. 

Norman: Forget me. I’m a bad lot! You’ve come too late.

Esther: I don’t believe that. It’s not too late. Not for you. Not for me.

Norman: Don’t say that, Esther. I might start to believe it.

Esther: Please, believe it. Believe it. Believe it, believe it.

Oscar pauses the movie and drops Zolf’s hand, a distracted look on his face. “Sorry, I…” He walks into the kitchen and flips open his notebook. “I need to write something down, give me a minute…” He bites his lip, his pen hovering over the page, and turns to Zolf. “Something about ‘I might start to believe it.’ That’s the tragedy of this scene, and why I think ‘A Star Is Born’ is infinitely better on a second viewing, because now the audience knows that Norman is doomed from the start despite having countless opportunities to redeem himself.” 

Zolf shrugs. “Well, I mean, Norman’s delusional about absolutely everything except for Esther.”

“But it’s like…like misplaced hope, maybe.” Oscar scribbles something down. “As though if he only tries hard enough to ignore his past and present, he can believe he has a future.”

“Oh, come on,” Zolf replies. “Don’t you think that’s a bit romantic for this drunk, emotionally abusive arsehole who never deserved Esther?” 

“Maybe.” Oscar arches an eyebrow, and Zolf has the sneaking suspicion he’s going to lose this argument. “But don’t you see a little of Judy Garland in Norman Maine? An aging performer struggling with alcoholism and depression, eminently gifted but impossible to work with, searching for hope in the later years of their life. That doesn’t sound familiar at all?” 

Dammit. “Well…I mean, yeah. Judy was—yes, fine, point taken.” Zolf turns to glower at the screen. “Hurry up so we can finish the movie.”  

Announcer: Miss Lester? This microphone is on an international hookup. Throughout the world, your fans are hoping that you’ll say a few words to them.

Esther: Hello, everybody. This is Mrs. Norman Maine.

“You know, I have mixed feelings about the ending. Because it’s such a great line, and Judy delivers it so beautifully, with all that signature fragility, her endless struggle for dignity. And I know they’re really cheering for her, not Norman, but…” Oscar trails off as Zolf looks away and makes a soft noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle. “Zolf, are you—”

“I’m fine,” Zolf says thickly, fumbling for the remote. He shuts off the screen and looks stonily at the wall.

None of that. Oscar slides down the sofa until he can rest his head on Zolf’s shoulder and starts softly singing. “Come to me, my melancholy baby…”

“Alright, alright.” Zolf shrugs Oscar off as he wipes his eyes with his arm. 

Oscar grins and presses up against Zolf’s back, slipping his arms around his waist. “Cuddle up and don’t be blue…”

“You idiot.” Zolf laughs wetly and tries to pull away, but Oscar holds him fast.

“All your fears are foolish fancy, maybe. You know, dear, that I’m in lo—”

Zolf twists in Oscar’s arms and kisses him firmly on the mouth, cutting him off, and Oscar lets out a pleased little squawk. “That’s really quite enough of that, thanks,” Zolf says, patting him briskly on the cheek. “You’re no Judy Garland.”

There’s a soft click down the hall, then the creak of the front door swinging open. Zolf swears under his breath and scrambles to his feet as two sets of footsteps sound in the foyer. “Hello, Zolf!” Azu calls out brightly. “I heard we might have a special guest tonight!”

“Yeah, uhm, hey.” Zolf inexplicably glares at Oscar, who shrugs. “Oscar’s, uhhh, he’s here already.”

“Funny, that.” Sasha slinks into the sitting room, holding a bottle of wine and a six-pack of beer, and smirks at Oscar. “Been here long?”

Oscar tosses his hair back as he rises from the sofa. “Oh, long enough.” 

Azu gazes at Zolf for a long, meaningful moment, then crosses the room in a few long strides and takes one of Oscar’s hands in both of her own. “I’m so pleased you’re here,” she says, beaming.

“Oh.” Oscar blinks at Azu, utterly disarmed. “Me too.” 

A ruddy flush spreads over Zolf’s face and neck as he shuffles over to Sasha and snatches the wine and beer out of her hands. “It’s just a bloody dinner,” he grumbles. “Gonna have one of these, if anyone else wants any.” 

Azu squeezes Oscar’s hand before letting go and following Zolf into the kitchen. “Wine would be lovely, Zolf. Here, let me get that for you…”

Oscar takes Sasha’s arm and leads her over to the bookcase. “So there is absolutely no way that that man—” Oscar flaps a hand dismissively in Zolf’s direction “—chose a bookcase this beautiful, and I need to know.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Does Zolf even know he owns furniture made by Gillows of Lancaster and London?”

Sasha tosses her fringe out of her eyes and flashes a grin. “That’s not an antique, mate. Built it myself.”

“This is gorgeous.” Oscar looks up at the bookcase, stroking the intricately carved moulding. “I didn’t know you made furniture.”

“Used to make loads before I opened a proper shop. I developed a knack for, uh, reproductions, let’s say.” Sasha shrugs as she scuffs her heel on the floor. “You’re right to think of Gillows, ‘cause of the floral motif in the cornices. Bit of a signature for them, especially in the early Victorian era. But Zolf needed somewhere to keep his records, and you’re not gonna find a proper antique bookcase of this caliber with deep enough shelves.” She skims her fingertips over Zolf’s record collection until she lands on a magenta spine and pulls out Loveless. “Ahhh, that’s the one. Gonna put this on.”

Oscar laughs incredulously. “Zolf does not listen to My Bloody Valentine.”

Sasha wrinkles her nose. “Nahh. He’s got rubbish taste in music. But I’ve slipped a few decent records into his collection, y’know, for contingencies.” She sets the record on the turntable and drops the needle, slouching against the wall as hazy, dissonant guitars roar through the speakers.  

“Sasha, what the hell did you just put on?” Zolf yells from the kitchen. 

“Good music!” Sasha shouts back. 

“No, it’s not!” Zolf stomps over and hands Oscar a glass of wine. “It’s noise!” 

“Oh, come off it.” Oscar slides his arm around Zolf’s shoulders. “I love My Bloody Valentine!”

Zolf briefly stiffens under his touch, but before Oscar can pull away, Zolf catches his hand and looks up at him with a wry smile. “Do you really? Or are you conspiring to drive me mad in my own home?”

“A little of column a.” Oscar strokes his thumb over Zolf’s knuckles, and Zolf tightens his grip on his hand. “A little of column b.”

“So, uh, Azu,” Sasha says, a little too loudly. “How, uh, how about that wine?”

Oscar is playing a game, and Zolf hasn’t quite figured out the rules yet. But it has something to do with saying things that make Azu laugh and clap her hands, or Sasha flash that sharp, pleased smirk, before looking over and catching Zolf’s eye. Then Oscar brushes his hair out of his face and smiles, or reaches under the table and rests his hand on Zolf’s knee, or serves himself a second helping of galbi-jjim, and Zolf’s heart squeezes tight in his chest.

After dinner, as Zolf is boxing up the leftovers, Oscar bumps him gently with his hip and leans down. “How am I doing?” he hisses.

Zolf looks at the anxious lines pinching Oscar’s brow, bewildered. “Doin’ at what?”

“You know!” Oscar gestures at Azu and Sasha, who are huddled together in the sitting room and being suspiciously quiet. “Making an impression!”

Zolf slips the leftovers into the fridge and wipes his hands on a towel. “What sort of impression d’you want to make?”

Oscar lets out a little frustrated huff. “Well, I want them to like me. That’s not always a given, or so I’ve heard.” He gives Zolf a rueful smile. “I suppose you’d understand that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Love.” Zolf’s chest constricts painfully, and he catches Oscar’s arm, needing to touch him and not fully understanding why. Oscar has rolled up his sleeves to help with clearing the table, and Zolf strokes his thumb over the fine bones of Oscar’s wrist, feels the flutter of his pulse. “You’re doin’ just fine.” 

“Zolf.” Something soft and vulnerable flickers over Oscar’s face as he allows Zolf to pull him close. “I—”

“Hey, Zolf,” Sasha calls out from the sitting room. “Come play cards with me, or Azu says I’ll have to do the washing-up.” 

“Oh god.” Zolf groans and leans against Oscar. “You don’t understand. She’s wrecked so many of my pans.”

Oscar chuckles softly and kisses Zolf’s temple. “Go play cards. I’ll take care of the washing-up.”

As Oscar scrubs down Zolf’s massive red pot, Azu takes up a dish towel and starts drying a stack of plates. “Zolf lets you wash the casserole dish? My goodness, you must be special indeed.”

Oscar shrugs, feeling inordinately pleased with himself. “I worked as a dishwasher when I was in uni.” 

“Hmmm.” Azu looks at Oscar like a barrister who’s managed to corner a witness, and Oscar winces inwardly as a dozen puns about casseroles suddenly fly through his brain. Fuck. He wants to be charming tonight, not sincere. “He’s never asked someone else to dinner before, you know.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, somehow.” Oscar nods at Sasha and Zolf, who are glowering at each other over their cards. “They’re lovely together, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but we’re talking about you right now.” Azu gives Oscar a long, searching look. “You’ve been making love to Zolf all evening.” 

Oscar laughs, a little helplessly. “I don’t know about that, though it’s certainly not for lack of trying.”

“Come on now, Oscar.” Azu smiles and shakes her head. “You know what I mean.”

“Well, I…” Oscar trails off as he rinses off the casserole. “I’ve never met anyone quite like him before.” 

Azu tugs the casserole out of his hands. “He’s a lot, isn’t he?”

Oscar snaps his head up and sets his jaw. “So am I.”

“Good answer.” Azu holds his gaze, her brown eyes steady and shrewd. “What will you do when you go back to London?”

Oscar heaves a sigh and looks away. “Oh, I don’t know.” He switches the faucet back on and picks up a platter. “Right now I’m trying not to think about it, to be completely honest.” 

“Do you want to stay in Wynsbury?” Azu asks lightly.

Oscar fusses with the platter as he weighs his answer. On the one hand, yes, of course, Wynsbury is lovely, Azu and Sasha are lovely, Zolf is…

Oscar looks over at Zolf, who’s virulently accusing a very smug-looking Sasha of cheating at cards. Someone has switched out My Bloody Valentine for Judy Garland, and her glorious voice casts an absurd gravitas over the scene, bringing out the softness in Zolf’s eyes, the faint smile tugging at his lips. 

Last night when we were young
Love was a star, a song unsung
Life was so new, so real, so right
Ages ago last night…

Wynsbury is Zolf’s home; Sasha and Azu are Zolf’s family. This is Zolf’s life. And sure, maybe Oscar could dig in his heels and carve out a place for himself with his bare hands, like he has his entire life. But when Oscar looks at Zolf, a fragile, exquisite ache swells to fill the space between his ribs, and he thinks, this one. Maybe this one will ask me to stay.  

“It’s complicated,” Oscar finally says. “My whole life is in London. And I—it’s taken a long time for me to get where I am today.” He looks at Azu and arches an eyebrow. “But I’m not afraid to leave that life behind.”

Shortly after Sasha and Azu leave, Oscar stands and shoulders his bag. “Well, I suppose I should get going too. I really do need to get some work done.”

A wave of disappointment rushes through Zolf, and before he knows what he’s doing he blurts out, “You could work here, if you like. I don’t mind.”

“Maybe another time. I need my laptop, and my notes, and I get a little, uhm…” Oscar trails off and waves a hand vaguely. “I generally prefer to be left alone when I do this sort of work.”  

“What sort of work?” Zolf asks.

“Where I take my notes and type up a proper draft, or when I write an article.” Oscar fiddles with the strap on his bag. “It’s, uhm, it can get a bit, shall we say, chaotic, and I can be—well, let’s just say it’s not something you want to see, I assure you.” 

“Alright, well.” Zolf frowns and shrugs. “I don’t mind, really.”

“Thank you.” Oscar smiles warmly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.” Zolf blinks up at Oscar, unsure of what else to say. “Well.”

Oscar leans down and takes Zolf’s face in his hands. “I had a wonderful time, and I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” He kisses Zolf, soft and sweet and lingering. “Goodnight, darling.”

“Night,” Zolf says hoarsely, his heart pounding in his chest.

Oscar turns to walk down the stairs. But just as Zolf goes to shut the door, he calls out, “Hey!” 

“What?” Zolf swings the door back open. “Did you forget something?”

Oscar leans against the bannister, smirking impishly up at him. “I just want to take another look at you.”

“Oh my god, you absolute idiot,” Zolf groans, covering his face with his hands. “Get out, you’re the worst, I never want to see you ever again.” 

Oscar’s laughter echoes through the stairwell, and Zolf smiles in spite of himself. “See you tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Text

“I’m going to need the entire kitchen table,” Oscar says, pulling a massive stack of paper out of his backpack. “I have a very particular arrangement for my notes. You can’t touch any part of my set-up. If my laptop is open, I’d very much appreciate it if you left me alone whenever I’m working on my novel. You’ll be able to tell because I’ll be wearing this.” Oscar holds up a grey hoodie, then takes out a blue hoodie and shrugs it on over his t-shirt. “But tonight I’ll be wearing the blue hoodie because I have to write a book review, and this is what I wear when I’m writing journalism. In general, you can talk to me whenever you want when I’m wearing the journalism hoodie, unless I have my headphones in. If I have my headphones in, only interrupt me if it’s an emergency. I’m deadly serious. If you interrupt me while I’m listening to music, I’ll either have a heart attack or bite your head off. Probably both. But if my laptop is shut and I’m writing in my notebook—stop laughing at me! This is important!”

“No, I’m sorry, it’s just—” Zolf rubs Oscar’s arm, his lips twitching with stifled laughter. “You have a system for absolutely everything.”

“It’s not a system, it’s a ritual!” Oscar sets down his laptop and flops into a chair with a good-natured huff. “I have ADHD! I need a ritual!”

“Are you a witch?” Zolf asks, smirking. “Am I dating a witch?”

“Oh my god, are we dating?” Oscar drags Zolf to stand between his legs and beams up at him. “Oh my god, are you my boyfriend?”

Zolf winces as he drapes his arms over Oscar’s shoulders. “I’m too old to be someone’s boyfriend.” 

Oscar rests his head on Zolf’s arm, letting his grin soften into a coy smile. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. Don’t you want to be my first?”

“God.” Zolf shakes his head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it when I’m ridiculous.” Oscar kisses Zolf’s elbow, looking up at him through his lashes. “Tell me you’ll be my boyfriend.”

“I—you—stop looking at me like that!” Zolf laughs helplessly, ducking his head as Oscar tries to catch his eye. “I’m not going to—no, stop it! God, I can’t!” 

“Zolf, darling.” Oscar takes Zolf’s face in his hands, and Zolf tips back his chin, finally meeting Oscar’s gaze. “Don’t break my heart.”

Zolf huffs and leans forward, resting his forehead against Oscar’s cheek. “God, fine, yes, I’m—I’m your boyfriend, alright?”

It’s so unbearably silly, it’s supposed to be a joke, but Oscar’s breath leaves him all at once in a broken rush. He cradles the back of Zolf’s neck, trailing his lips over Zolf’s hair, his temple, his ear, his cheek. Oh, I love you. Oscar has a boyfriend who smells of coriander and cumin and coffee, who loves Harrison Campbell and Judy Garland, who braids Oscar’s hair and cooks him dinner and teases him about his rituals to show that he cares. You’re mine, and I love you, I love you, I love you. 

Zolf leans back, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark as he cups the side of Oscar’s neck. “D’you need to work right now?” He presses his thumb to Oscar’s pulse and strokes a slow line down his throat. “Or can you…”

Zolf yanks Oscar’s arms behind his back as he fucks him on the sofa, leaning down to kiss the Venus symbol tattooed on Oscar’s shoulder. It’s the clumsy work of a talentless scratcher, but something about the bold, uneven ink makes Zolf growl and dig his fingers into Oscar’s wrists as he fucks into him at a brutal pace, reaching his free hand between Oscar’s legs to pull at his cock. 

“Jesus fucking christ, Zolf, what the fuck, that’s so good, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.” Oscar looks back at Zolf through the dark tangle of his hair, and Zolf sinks his teeth into the tattoo until Oscar cries out, bucking his hips back as he comes all over Zolf’s fist. 

Afterwards, Zolf rolls Oscar onto his back, and Oscar winds his arms loosely around Zolf’s waist as he arches up into his chest. Zolf loves how clingy Oscar gets after sex, his skin warm and flushed and wonderfully sensitive, and he caresses Oscar’s shoulder, pressing his lips to the Venus symbol. “When did you get this?”

“When I was nineteen, I fucked an aspiring tattoo artist and let him practice on me.” Zolf has a vision of Oscar lying across a dirty mattress littered with haphazard tattooing equipment, and he tightens his grip on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar looks up at Zolf, bemused. “Have I scandalised you, my dear?”

“Nahh.” Zolf holds himself over Oscar as he kisses him, a light, lingering brush of his lips. “I know what I’ve stepped in with you.” 

“Jealous then,” Oscar declares triumphantly. “You’re jealous.”

“Why would I be jealous?” Zolf kisses a line down Oscar’s ribs and over his hip. “Reckon I’ve got you well in hand.”

Oscar groans as Zolf cups his spent cock. “That was a terrible pun.”

“Why a Venus symbol?” Zolf kneels between Oscar’s legs, stroking the velvety hair lining his inner thighs. “Not that your tattoo needs to mean anything. Most of mine don’t mean shite.”

“Of course my tattoo means something. Have you ever known me to pass on an opportunity to be pretentious?” Oscar drapes his leg over the edge of the sofa, lengthening the sinuous lines of his body. “A lot of people look at my fabulous hair and my fabulous bone structure and my fabulous arse, and they assume I’m a woman. And the thing is, yes, I’m ostensibly a man, but they’re not wrong. I’m femme and fabulous, and I’ve never minded being called she/her or miss or ma’am. What bothers me is the faffing about after they hear my voice or take a ‘closer look,’ the whole, ‘Ma’am—sir! Sir, I meant sir!’ Or, god forbid, when they apologise. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, how dare I insult you by acknowledging your femininity.’ As though those corrections aren’t riddled with their own incorrect assumptions.” Oscar glances at the Venus symbol on his shoulder, then smiles at Zolf, bright and full of mischief. “So I got this tattoo as a way to say to these people, however you might choose to read my body, my gender is a many-splendoured thing.”

Zolf crawls back up the sofa, and Oscar drops his head to the side with a sigh as Zolf traces the tattoo with his lips. With his exquisite profile and sable hair, Oscar looks like a painting that Zolf once saw when Bosz dragged him to a museum in New York, a portrait of a socialite whose bare shoulders sparked such a controversy that the painter was forced to leave the country. Zolf had scoffed when he read the plaque, because she wasn’t that bad, she was fully clothed, for goodness sake, and just down the hall was a painting of a hundred wood-nymphs swanning about, naked as the day they were born. But with his lips pressed to the rough edge of heavy-handed ink carved into a canvas of luminous skin, Zolf understands how Oscar could scandalise society with a turn of his head, the slope of his shoulder. And even though he’s never really cared for art, Zolf has the sudden, absurd urge to paint Oscar draped across his sofa, to immortalise the shameless kant of his hips, the flush of pleasure staining his cheeks, the shape of Zolf’s thumb bruised into his graceful wrists. To scandalise the world with the beauty of Oscar’s defiance. 

“It suits you,” Zolf murmurs against Oscar’s tattoo. “But please, if you ever decide to get another tattoo, promise me you’ll go to a proper studio.”

Oscar creeps into the bedroom at three in the morning, clutching his clothes to his chest. He’s really pushing his luck tonight, but he hasn’t been able to work on Bad Sons for nearly a week. So he’d zipped up his grey hoodie and set up his workspace and queued up the entire discography of Sleater-Kinney, and the world fell away. The words flowed through his mind, vivid and mesmerising and urgent, and he wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and when his ears finally rang with the absence of Corin Tucker’s piercing voice, it was three in the morning. 

It’s not his fault. Oscar doesn’t get to decide when the driving rush of hyperfocus sparks in his brain, and when it does, well. He has a novel to write, and as long as he gets to bed before Zolf wakes up, what Zolf doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

Zolf is an absurdly light sleeper, but Oscar has developed a system—a ritual, if you will—for getting into bed without waking him. First, Oscar disrobes in the hall. Then he opens the door—fast enough so the hinges don’t creak, slow enough to avoid creating a wind. Finally, he slinks over to the bed and spends a full minute easing his weight onto the mattress and slipping under the covers. If the mattress dips too quickly beneath Oscar’s weight, or the bed frame creaks, or Oscar rustles the sheets, Zolf immediately wakes. And then he checks the time and looks at Oscar, his lovely face creased with concern and disappointment, and says, Oscar, it’s so late. 

It feels disconcertingly like sneaking back into his parent’s house in Dublin, that final year before Oscar left home—the queasy nerves mounting in his stomach as the night goes on, the inner monologue justifying his actions, the hot rush of shame when he’s inevitably caught. Sometimes Oscar catches himself thinking, as he did then, You could just go. Just pack your things and run away and never come back. 

But things are different now. Oscar wants to be in Zolf’s bed, and if he’s honest with himself, he’s ashamed because he knows Zolf is right. The wildly erratic sleep schedule, the constant caffeine, the endless barrage of work—none of it’s healthy. He’s just never had a reason to change, to view his life as something more than a fight to survive.  

I’ll try for you, my love. Oscar slowly peels back the covers, bracing his hand on the headboard as he gradually sinks his weight into the mattress. I’ll do better tomorrow, I promise.

Zolf stirs and rolls over, the sheets gripped tight in his fist, and Oscar freezes with one leg beneath the covers. Zolf mumbles something incomprehensible into the pillow, then lets out a strangled sob, and Oscar flings himself across the bed, his heart in his throat. 

“Zolf, love,” Oscar says, shaking Zolf’s arm. “Zolf, I need you to wake up.” 

Oscar knows what it’s like to be afraid—of rejection, of homelessness, of violence, of failure—and he sees that stark, existential fear flash across Zolf’s face as he bolts upright with a gasp, his chest heaving. He looks around the room, wild-eyed, before his gaze settles on Oscar. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry, I was, uhm. Sorry.”

“You’re alright, darling.” Oscar rubs soothing circles into Zolf’s back. What are you carrying with you? “Everything’s alright.”

“Sorry.” Zolf scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. “Sorry, I—sorry.”

Oscar slips his arm around Zolf’s shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re alright.” Zolf sways toward Oscar, and Oscar pulls him against his chest, his hand in Zolf’s hair. “My darling, you’re alright.”

“I don’t—” Zolf takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.” Oscar lies back on the bed and holds Zolf tighter. You don’t have to tell me, but let me bear some of the weight. “We can do anything you like.” 

“Sorry, just, uhm.” Zolf swallows and shuts his eyes. “Sorry, could you, uhm, could you just talk? About anything.”

“Of course.” Oscar rests his lips in Zolf’s hair. “Do you remember that book I told you about, One Last Stop by Casey McQuiston? I really, really think you should read it.”

Zolf chuckles weakly. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m telling you, it’s the best romance novel I’ve read in ages.” Oscar smiles as he feels Zolf relax against him. “Such a brilliant celebration of queer culture, past and present, and the way McQuiston invokes tropes, and in particular the nuanced ways she layers fantasy and romance tropes, demonstrates such a remarkable fluency in the conventions of the contemporary romance genre. This happens at many levels, but you see it most clearly in the novel’s central premise—that is, a love interest trapped in time on a subway. McQuiston takes the almost universal experience of forming transient interpersonal connections in public spaces and elevates it into a high romance by extrapolating on the themes of time and space and missed connection in a world that defies the laws of physics. What I think McQuiston is doing is making explicit the ways in which romance stories are themselves a kind of fantasy expression of our personal desires. I need to hear what you think once you’ve had a chance to read it, because I’m thinking about writing an essay comparing One Last Stop with When Passions Collide that would discuss the ways in which the prevalence of certain tropes within the romance genre reflect the zeitgeist, and how the genre has evolved in the decade since When Passions Collide was published…”

Oscar rambles on and on, his voice a low hum in Zolf’s hair, until he feels Zolf go completely limp in his arms, his breath slow and easy against Oscar’s chest. I’ll be here when you wake, and I’ll do better, I know I can be better for you.  

“Huh.” Zolf touches the faint glint of silver at Oscar’s temple with his comb. “Is your hair naturally brown?” 

“It used to be.” Oscar frowns as he tips his head back to look at Zolf. “Why? Are my roots showing?” 

“Look down.” Zolf uses the tail end of the comb to part Oscar’s hair and runs his thumb along the line of his milky scalp, where the rich black-brown fades into variegated grey. “A bit, yeah. I had no idea you were going grey.”

“Yes, well, that’s what the dye is for,” Oscar huffs. “Do I need to touch it up?” 

Zolf threads his fingers through Oscar’s hair, searching for more hints of his natural colour. His roots are almost invisible, even this close, just the barest whisper of silver like a late autumn frost on the branches of a maple tree. 

You don’t let people see you as anything less than perfect. Zolf smooths his hands over Oscar’s hair and kisses his part, this little glimpse of grey hair hidden beneath the fall of brown. But I know better. “Not at all.”

Oscar is so close to finishing his column that he’s already mentally drafting the email to his editor. Sorry for cutting this so close, I ran into some trouble verifying a few sources. Not entirely a lie, but if Oscar was being honest, he’d add, Also Zolf asked if I wanted to watch The Wizard of Oz last night, and how on earth was I supposed to say no? It was maybe the most fun I’ve ever had watching a film, he looked so incandescently happy the entire time, and afterwards we spent a full hour discussing Judy Garland’s performance, and then he let me suck him off for the first time. Did you really expect me to…

“Oscar?”

“JESUS CHRIST!” Oscar’s chair crashes to the floor as he leaps to his feet. “Fucking hell, Zolf, what on earth are you doing here?!”

“I live here.” Zolf blinks at him blearily. “And it’s four o’clock in the morning. What are you doing up?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Oscar gestures wildly at his laptop. “I’m working!”

Zolf catches Oscar’s wrist. “Have you been up all night?”

Oscar tries to smile, but he’s so exhausted that the corners of his mouth twitch. “Uhm. Unfortunately, yes.” 

“Oscar.” Zolf frowns up at him. “You need to sleep.”

Oscar winces at Zolf’s soft, concerned, patronising tone, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself down. Don’t be defensive, don’t snap, don’t put him off. “Sorry, I had to respond to edits on that essay I was telling you about, the one about One Last Stop and Passions, and I ran up against the deadline for my column. And I…” Oscar gently tugs his arm out of Zolf’s grasp before righting his chair and sitting down. “This is one of the reasons why I don’t always want to spend the night. I keep atrocious hours when I’m on a deadline.”

“It’s not just when you’re on a deadline.” Zolf shakes his head, still frowning. “Maybe don’t take on so many freelance assignments if it means you can’t sleep. Your work schedule, it’s…it’s not sustainable.”

Anger crackles up Oscar’s spine, cold and sharp. “My work schedule isn’t sustainable?” he says icily. “You wake up before the crack of dawn every day and don’t leave Coriander until well after sunset.” 

Zolf takes a step back, his face darkening. “I don’t just sit in front of a laptop all day, Oscar. I run a café. What the hell d’you want me to do?”

“What do you think I’m doing on my laptop, Zolf? Playing solitaire? I’m a professional writer, and I take on freelance assignments because I’m a journalist in an age when no one reads the papers anymore and a novelist who writes unmarketable fiction. As it is, I barely make enough to live in London. Do you have any idea what the cost of living is in London?” Shit. Oscar rubs his brow as he realises the implication of what he’s just said. “That didn’t come out the way I intended. It’s just—with the hours you work, I don’t know when you expect me to get my work done if we want to spend any kind of time together. I’ve never been able to work effectively before noon, and I’m used to working through my afternoons and evenings. So now—” 

“So we’re just, what?” Zolf throws up his hands, eyes blazing. “Incompatible?”

“Zolf, no.” The fight drains out of Oscar as quickly as it came on, and he reaches out to Zolf, dread rushing through him. “Zolf, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry.”

Zolf crosses his arms and looks out the window, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “Then what the fuck did you mean?”

“I—I don’t know.” Oscar clutches at Zolf’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. Zolf, I’m sorry.”

Zolf huffs a sigh, but most of the tension leaves his face. “S’alright,” he grumbles, allowing Oscar to pull him close. “You haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t slept, and I’m a mess who doesn’t know how to look after himself.” A small part of Oscar wonders when he became the kind of person who would roll over at the barest sign of conflict. You’re not wrong, that part of him says. Zolf works more than humanly possible, and he should respect your work as much as you respect his. But it’s lost in the overwhelming fear of losing Zolf, and Oscar takes Zolf’s hand and presses his lips to his knuckles. “Don’t give up on me.” 

“Love.” Zolf smooths his hand over Oscar’s hair and kisses his forehead. “I’m not gonna give up on you. I just—I worry about you. And you’re—I know I work a lot.”

“I worry about you, too,” Oscar says softly. “Have you ever considered hiring someone to help you at the café?” 

Zolf scoffs but doesn’t pull away. “You sound like Azu.”

Oscar smiles. Good to know I have someone on my side. “Azu’s a very smart woman.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just…” Zolf shrugs. “To be honest with you, I dunno if I could stand working with another person. And besides, what else am I doing with my time?”

Oscar arches an eyebrow. “Well, me.” 

Zolf chuckles. “Sure, but what about when…” He trails off and looks away, some of the light fading from his eyes.

“You know,” Oscar says carefully. “One of the benefits of being a writer is that I can work from just about anywhere.” 

“Yeah?” Zolf’s eyes soften as he turns back to face Oscar, and that fragile, exquisite ache swells in Oscar’s chest. Don’t let me go, my love. “Well. I’ll think about bringing someone else on at Coriander, okay?”

“Okay.” Oscar lets out his breath and kisses Zolf’s cheek. “And I’ll try to be better about managing my time.” 

Zolf frowns at Oscar, who’s huddled over his laptop at the kitchen table. “Are you shivering?”

“What do you want?” Oscar snaps, pulling out his earbuds. He’s wearing both of his hoodies, one on top of the other—blue on the outside, at least—and yes, he’s definitely shivering. “What’s wrong with you, what did I do, what caught on fire, what the hell do you want?”

Zolf pulls Oscar’s hand off the keyboard and tries to rub some warmth into his mottled purple fingers. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” Oscar says tersely, snatching his hand back. “Please, we talked about this. I need you to leave me alone. I’m working.”  

“This counts as an emergency! What d’you want me to do? Let you freeze to death?” Zolf stalks over to the thermostat and dials up the temperature. “Oscar, you’ve got to tell me if I need to turn on the heat. I don’t feel the cold like you do.”

“Yes, alright, fine, I promise I’ll let you know.” Oscar stuffs his hands in his pocket. “Will you let me get back to work?”

Zolf grabs the kettle and starts filling it with water. “Can I make you a hot water bottle?”

“A hot water bottle?” The corner of Oscar’s mouth quirks up. “What is this, the 1940s? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a hot water bottle in action in my entire life.”

“You’ve never used a hot water bottle before?” Zolf asks incredulously. “They’re great.”  

“I’m sure they’re lovely, but I’m fine, really,” Oscar says, sounding exasperated. “Just leave me to it, you don’t need to—”

“For goodness sake, Oscar, you’re shivering.” Zolf snaps the lid on the kettle and sets it to boil. “Hold on, I’ve got a hot water bottle around here somewhere…”

Zolf digs his hot water bottle out of his linen closet, hesitating over the slime green, cable-knit cover. The soft yarn feels so terribly familiar in his hands, and his chest aches as he traces the twisting pattern of the cables, remembering the rhythmic click of Bosz’s knitting needles, the warmth of the bottle pressed against his hip as she slept beside him. 

When Zolf plops the warm bottle in Oscar’s lap a few minutes later, Oscar’s face lights up like…well, like Bosz’s would, whenever Zolf bundled her inside his coat or dragged her into his bunk on a cold winter night. “Oh,” Oscar purrs, hugging the bottle. “It’s so warm!”

The sight of Bosz’s knitting cradled in Oscar’s arms resonates deep in that aching, familiar place in Zolf’s chest, and he momentarily shuts his eyes against the memory of Bosz’s brilliant smile as she curled up in his bunk, cuddling her hot water bottle like a bilious green puppy. She’d always resist at first, insist that everything’s fine, she’s fine, for fuck’s sake, Zolf, stop fussing. But then Zolf would hold her icy hands against his neck, and she’d beam up at him like she’d never felt anything so lovely in her life. You’re so warm, Bosz would say, huddling closer. How are you so warm?

“Zolf.” Oscar’s hand slips over Zolf’s arm, soft and cool. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” Zolf touches the knitted cables, then takes Oscar’s hands, pressing them to his neck. “Sometimes you remind me of someone.”

With the familiar rush of cold skin against his neck, Zolf can almost imagine he’s back on the Snapdragon, the wind buffeting the ship as Bosz huddles against him. But Oscar’s hands are so much larger than Bosz’s, so much softer. Oscar rubs his thumbs in gentle circles over the nape of Zolf’s neck, and that’s different, too, his tender, lingering touch. But Oscar looks at Zolf with the same light in his eyes that would soften Bosz’s gaze whenever she’d rest her head on Zolf’s shoulder, a gentle assurance that it’s alright, I’m here. Whatever you need from me, I’m here.

“Do you want to tell me about them?” Oscar asks softly.

“Her name was Bosz.” Zolf swallows around the tightness in his throat. “We worked together on a freighter called the Snapdragon, back in my sailing days.”

Oscar glances down at the hot water bottle in his lap. “Did this belong to her?”

“Yeah.” Zolf smiles at the bottle, remembering Bosz’s collection of half-finished afghans and jumpers and mittens, all in the most lurid colours imaginable. “I think that may be the only knitting project she ever finished. Here, you should—” Zolf scoops up the bottle and stuffs it under Oscar’s shirt. “That’s what she used to do, to make the heat last longer.”

Zolf lets his fingertips linger over Oscar’s ribs, just on the wrong side of ticklish, and something loosens in his chest as Oscar gasps with laughter and wrestles Zolf into his lap. I wish we could’ve met sooner. Zolf kisses Oscar with the hot water bottle pressed between them, warm and familiar. Bosz would’ve loved you.

Zolf turns to Oscar one night while they’re reading in bed. “Does your family still live in Dublin?” 

Oscar shrugs. “Probably.” 

Zolf frowns and rests a hand on Oscar’s knee. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t keep in touch with my family.” Oscar sets his book aside and smiles, soft and a little uncertain. “It’s not…Darling, as you would say, please don’t make this weird.” 

Zolf stiffens. “Did I say something wrong?” 

“No, no, I’m sorry, you’re fine, I just—” Oscar trails off and takes Zolf’s hand, worrying his thumb over Zolf’s knuckles. “Sometimes I feel as though people expect me to, I don’t know, have some sort of a nervous breakdown whenever I talk about my parents. But to be completely honest with you, it’s never bothered me as much as maybe it should.”

“Uhm.” Zolf clears his throat. “D’you—d’you want to tell me about it?”

“Not particularly. My parents and I…we didn’t get on.” Oscar shakes his head and sighs. “I really don’t want to talk about the details. Now or ever. I’ve gone over that part of my life so many times, to the point where reliving the past isn’t productive anymore. Let’s just say I was always a little too much for them.”

Zolf squeezes Oscar’s hand, anger simmering in the pit of his stomach. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know how it goes,” Oscar says lightly. “Too gay, too femme, too loud, too smart for my own good. Just, you know. Too much.”

Hot, acrid fury blazes in Zolf’s chest, and suddenly Zolf is in Oscar’s face, cradling his neck. “Oscar,” he says roughly. “You’re not too much.”

Oscar’s eyes are wide and dark as he gazes up at Zolf, and Zolf wants to cover him with his body and never let him go, keep him warm, keep him safe, make sure he never goes hungry ever again—

“Yes, I am,” Oscar snaps, his voice clear and sharp as cut glass. He hauls Zolf into his lap and kisses him, fierce and ravenous, dragging his teeth over Zolf’s lower lip until his mouth is harsh with blood. Zolf presses his tongue against Oscar’s teeth, groaning when he tastes his blood on Oscar’s lips, and Oscar claws his fingers in Zolf’s hair and bears down, his tongue lashing into Zolf’s mouth as he holds Zolf fast against his chest. 

It’s like getting caught in a maelstrom, and Zolf is almost frightened by the ferocious desire roaring through his body, making him moan into Oscar’s mouth and arch his back and grind against Oscar’s thigh. Oscar is so strong, carving his path through the world with the relentless power of an ancient river, and nothing will stand in his way—not his family, not Zolf, not anything. Zolf can either step aside or let himself get swept away, and he clings to Oscar’s neck like a lifeline, desperate to hold on. Please, I can take it, Zolf wants to beg. I’ll take anything you give me, anything at all, I swear, I can take it.

“Zolf,” Oscar growls, baring his teeth. He drops his head back, his hands coming up to frame Zolf’s face. “You know I’m too much.”

“I know, love.” Zolf slides his hand around Oscar’s wrist and turns into his touch, pressing his thumb to the driving rhythm of Oscar’s pulse. “I know, I know.”

Zolf gasps as Oscar tightens his grip in his hair. “Say it.”

“You’re too much.” Zolf kisses Oscar’s palm. “I love that you’re too much.”

“Zolf…” Oscar’s voice falters, his touch softening in Zolf’s hair. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

Zolf presses his forehead against the heel of Oscar’s hand and shuts his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh.” Oscar pulls Zolf close and lays him down on the bed. “I know, I know. It’s alright.”

“Oscar.” Zolf clutches at Oscar’s neck, his pupils blown wide. “I don’t—I don’t want to stop. Oscar, please, I—”

Oscar silences Zolf with a kiss, and Zolf moans and presses closer, his tongue sweeping Oscar’s mouth. He shivers as Oscar skims his fingers along the waistband of his pants, his prick a hot, heavy line against Oscar’s stomach, and pulls away just long enough to strip off his clothes before nestling back against Oscar’s bare chest. 

Oscar has never seen Zolf quite like this before, soft and pliant and a little frantic, and a deep, tender warmth rolls through Oscar in gentle waves. “Don’t worry, my darling, I’ll take care of you. Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it, anything you want.” Oscar drapes his leg over Zolf’s hip, curling possessively around him. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Zolf runs his hand anxiously up and down Oscar’s thigh and nods.

“How do you want me?” Oscar kisses the soft skin below Zolf’s ear. “Do you want me on my back? On my knees? On your lap?”

“I don’t…” Zolf makes a frustrated little grunt and clutches Oscar closer. “Would you…” 

I love you, you stubborn bastard. Oscar strokes Zolf’s hair as he nuzzles into his neck. I love you, I love you, I love you. “Would I what, love?”

“I don’t know how to ask you for this.” Zolf huffs, that familiar resolve slipping back into place. “I’ve never…I’ve never done this before.”  

Oscar looks down at Zolf, takes in his dishevelled hair, his ruddy cheeks, his hard, leaking cock pressed tight against Oscar’s thigh, and smiles to himself. Ahh. He brushes his lips against Zolf’s ear and whispers, “Do you want me inside you?”

“For fuck’s sake, Oscar!” Zolf covers his face with his hands and bursts into laughter. “How d’you go about just sayin’ shit like that?”

Oscar pries Zolf’s hands away from his face and pins them over his head. “It’s the brand, darling.”

“Is that—god, I can’t!” Zolf wrenches his arms out of Oscar’s hold. “What you just said—”

“Topping?” Oscar supplies with a grin. 

Zolf groans and presses his hands over his eyes. “Yes, that!”

“Stop covering your lovely face!” Oscar chuckles warmly as he kisses Zolf’s lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his chin. “You can’t say topping? What are you, twelve?”

“Fine, topping!” Zolf flings his arms over his head and pulls a face. “Is that a thing you do?”

“Yes, with the right person.” Oh, I love you. Oscar can’t stop smiling as he traces Zolf’s lower lip with his thumb. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. “Is that a thing you want me to do?”

“Yeah.” Zolf heaves a sigh and reaches up to stroke Oscar’s hair behind his ear. “Yeah, I do.”

“Alright. Then that’s what I’ll do.” Oscar rolls off Zolf and props his head on his arm. “So you’ve never bottomed before?”

Zolf turns bright red and drops his head back on the bed. “God, no, I just said—”

“Zolf,” Oscar says gently. “I’m not trying to embarrass you. I’m trying to get this right.”

Zolf scrubs a hand over his face, then heaves another sigh. “Alright.” He turns to face Oscar. “Yeah, I’ve never bottomed before.”  

“Well, lucky for you I have a lot of experience.” Oscar smiles encouragingly. “It won’t be entirely comfortable the first time, and it might hurt a bit. But I want to make this good for you, and for me to do that I need you to be completely honest with me.”

Zolf swallows and nods. “Okay.”

“I’m serious, Zolf.” Oscar cups Zolf’s cheek, searching his face. I would never forgive myself if I hurt you. “You’ll tell me if something doesn’t feel good, or if we need to stop, for any reason. Do you understand me?”

Zolf catches Oscar’s arm, kissing his wrist. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Alright.” Oscar nods, satisfied. “On your hands and knees, my dear.” Zolf flips over, and Oscar places a hand between Zolf’s shoulder blades, pressing him down. “Rest on your forearms. This is going to take awhile.”

Oscar cups Zolf’s arse with both hands and spreads him open, then licks a wide, wet strip between his cheeks. Zolf gasps, his hips jerking back. “You like that?” Oscar asks.

“Uh-huh,” Zolf mumbles into his arms.

“Good.” Oscar buries his face between Zolf’s cheeks and rubs the flat of his tongue against Zolf’s rim until it flutters against his lips. That’s it, my love. Oscar moans and pushes closer, lapping and sucking at Zolf’s hole, coaxing him loose. Open up for me. 

Oscar loves eating arse, loves the sweet, musky taste, the give of taut muscle against his tongue, and Zolf is so responsive. Oscar’s cock throbs as he feels the muscle yield, allowing the tip of his tongue to slip inside, and Zolf makes a low, guttural noise and spreads his thighs wider. Oscar curls his tongue to encourage the stretch, teasing it in as far as it can go until he’s pressed so close to Zolf’s arse he can scarcely breathe. 

When Zolf is whimpering and wet and relaxed, Oscar swirls his tongue over Zolf’s hole, letting it catch on his rim, before sitting back on his heels. “Alright,” he pants, wiping his chin. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No,” Zolf says hoarsely. “Not at all.”

“There’s loads more where that came from, though.” Oscar swipes the lube off the bedside table and slicks up his hand, then rubs a fingertip over Zolf’s rim. “I’m going to work a finger in. I need you to relax, as best as you can, and take deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Alright?”

“Alright.” Zolf looks over his shoulder and grins. “You’re doin’ great, Oscar.”

Oscar smiles back. “So are you. Okay, deep breath in for me now.” Oscar eases in his finger, soothing his other hand up Zolf’s spine. Fuck, you’re tight. “Keep breathing. How does that feel?”

Zolf exhales, puffing his cheeks. “Weird, but good.” 

Oscar frowns. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Zolf chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m not made of glass, love.” 

“I wouldn’t fuck you if you were.” Oscar kisses Zolf’s back. “That would be terribly unsafe. Quite the occupational hazard for a shameless slag like me. I’d have to report you to the HSE, and it’d be all over the papers.”

“Oh, shut up.” Zolf wrinkles his nose and clenches around Oscar’s finger. “Am I doing this right?”

“Yes!” Oscar beams at Zolf as he feels him relax. “Look at you, bottoming like a pro.”

“Y’know, I’ve fucked a few bottoms in my time,” Zolf says, his voice strained as he clenches again. “I’m not a damn virgin.”

“I am intimately acquainted with that fact, darling.” Oscar rubs Zolf’s arse. “Keep up the good work. A few more deep breaths for me, and then we’ll see if you’re ready for more.”

Zolf is so Zolf the whole time Oscar stretches him open, grumpy and impatient and attentive and determined, even with Oscar’s hand halfway up his bum, and Oscar’s anxiety slowly melts away. “Gosh, sex is fun,” Oscar says brightly, as Zolf clamps down around three of his fingers. “Isn’t sex fun?”

“If you say so.” Zolf lifts himself up on his arms and grins back at Oscar. “I reckon I’m as ready as I’m ever gonna be.”

“Come here.” Oscar pulls Zolf against him, kissing him until he gasps into Oscar’s mouth, his cock hard and straining against Oscar’s hip. Oscar nips at Zolf’s lower lip, and Zolf moans and judders against him, his fingers digging into Oscar’s shoulders. 

“Oscar,” Zolf breathes, looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Oscar, please.”

“What do you want, my darling?” Oscar grabs the lube and slicks up his cock. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“You better, after all that prep,” Zolf grumbles. “How d’you want to do this?”

“Get on top of me.” Oscar lies back on the bed, and Zolf straddles Oscar’s lap. “I’m not going to move until you’re good and ready. Probably not at all tonight, to be honest. I want you to have complete control.”

“You just want me to do all the work,” Zolf says, shaking his head fondly as he leans down to kiss Oscar. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

Oscar nips at Zolf’s lips again, smiling as Zolf lets out a low whine. “Me too.” He presses the tip of his cock against Zolf’s arse, and Zolf pushes himself upright, bracing his hands on Oscar’s chest. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay, let me just…” Zolf’s head falls back as he sinks down on Oscar’s cock, baring the strong column of his neck. “God.”

Look at you. Oscar steadies Zolf’s hips with his hands and takes a deep breath, trying not to lose himself in Zolf’s tight heat. “Don’t take it all at once. Wrap your hand around the base of my cock and use it to gauge how much more you want to take.”

Zolf shuts his eyes as he reaches behind him and grasps Oscar’s cock, his brow creased in concentration. “Sorry, I—give me a second.”

“Of course, you’re fine.” Oscar soothes his hands along Zolf’s thighs. “Relax. Take your time with me.”

Zolf starts to move his hips, a little stiffly at first, before finding a shallow, undulating rhythm that makes pleasure fizzle and spark over Oscar’s skin. Oscar strokes his thumb along Zolf’s hip crease and sighs as he takes in Zolf’s kiss-bruised lips, his glowing cheeks. “You have no idea how good you look like this. How good you feel, wrapped around my cock.”

Zolf tightens his grip on Oscar’s cock. “Yeah?” 

“God, yes.” Oscar gasps as Zolf’s hand glides up the length of him. “Can you feel how hard I am for you? How badly I want this?” 

Zolf takes a shaky breath and nods. “Hold on, I’m gonna…” He adjusts his seat, grunting as he takes Oscar a little deeper. “Jesus, Oscar.” He shakes his head, panting. “You’re a lot.” 

Oscar watches Zolf’s face closely, his hands hovering anxiously over Zolf’s hips. “Is it too much?”

Zolf chuckles and opens his eyes, running a hand up Oscar’s body. “Yeah, but in a good way.” He tugs at Oscar’s shoulder. “Come up here.”

Oscar loops an arm around Zolf’s waist and hauls himself upright. “Hello,” he murmurs, nuzzling Zolf’s cheek.

“Hey.” Zolf licks his lips, his breath coming in warm little huffs against Oscar’s ear. “Could you— fuck —could you touch me?”

Oscar caresses Zolf’s cheek. “How do you want me to touch you?” 

“Like you—” Zolf grits his teeth and lets go of Oscar’s cock, winding his arms around Oscar’s neck. “Like you touch yourself.”

“Mmm.” Oscar licks his palm and slips his hand between their bodies, where Zolf’s cock is pressed against his stomach. “Like I touch myself, thinking of you?”

“Oscar.” Zolf cries out as he sinks down on the full length of Oscar’s cock, and Oscar grinds his teeth to stop himself from thrusting up into the lush, delicious heat of him. “You’re gonna be the death of me, fuck.”

“Easy, easy.” Oscar slides his arm under Zolf’s arse, gently rocking him on his cock. “We have all the time in the world.”

“You feel so good.” Zolf rests his forehead on Oscar’s shoulder. “Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself.”

“Do you remember,” Oscar drawls, lazily stroking Zolf’s cock, “what you said to me on the sofa in Coriander, the first time we kissed?”

Zolf laughs breathlessly. “Remind me.” 

“You said that I wanted you to strip me naked and lay me out on the floor of your café so everyone could see how hard and aching and desperate I am for you.” Zolf sucks in a ragged breath as Oscar kisses a line down his throat. “That I wanted you to bend me over the table where I write every day and fuck me open with your fingers.” Oscar gently squeezes Zolf’s cock and feels him moan against his lips. “That I wanted to kneel behind the counter and suck you off while you sit at the till, both hands gripping my hair tight as you fuck into my pretty mouth.” 

Zolf begins fucking himself on Oscar’s cock in earnest, gasping in Oscar’s ear. “You liked that.” 

“You got me so hard I could scarcely walk.” Oscar twists his wrist, stroking his thumb over the tip of Zolf’s cock, and groans as Zolf spasms around him. “So that night I went home, and I took off all my clothes, and I laid myself out on my bedroom floor, and I thought about you bending me over a table in Coriander and pulling my trousers down around my ankles and working me open with your fingers until I’m begging you to fuck me. And you wouldn’t even touch my cock, would you? You’d just turn around and walk behind the counter with that come-and-fuck-me scowl you wear so well.”

“That’s absolutely not what that scowl means,” Zolf huffs.

“It does to me.” Oscar smirks and twists his wrist again, and Zolf’s breath stutters over his cheek. “And then I’d limp over to the counter and beg you to touch me, to kiss me, anything, please, give me anything, and you’d pull out your cock and say, ‘Come over here and show me how bad you want it, love.’ And I’d crawl behind the counter and swallow you down, and you’d fuck my mouth until I was gagging with it, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes as you twist my hair around your fingers. ‘This is what you’re meant for,’ you’d say, ‘You’re meant to take my cock, you’re meant for me.’ And you’d let me touch you because I’m being so good, let me dig my fingers into your arse so I can take you further as you come down my throat, leaving me hard and untouched and desperate for more, for you. That’s what I thought about when I touched myself, like this.” Zolf hisses in frustration as Oscar loosens his grip, sliding his fingers slowly up and down the full length of his cock. “Because even the thought of your cock in my mouth made me feel so good that I didn’t want it to end.”

“Oscar.” Zolf drags his fingers through Oscar’s hair, his voice desperately low. “Oscar, m’close.” 

“Go ahead, my darling.” Oscar starts jerking Zolf with long, firm strokes, his other hand reaching down to feel the stretch of Zolf around him. “I’ve got you.”  

“Love.” Zolf’s lips are soft and shaky against Oscar’s cheekbone. “I don’t want this to end.”

“I’m here, Zolf,” Oscar says, his voice breaking. I love you, I love you, you have to know how much I love you, please, Zolf, you have to know. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Zolf groans through clenched teeth as he spills between them. “Oscar,” he chokes out, collapsing against Oscar’s chest. “God, Oscar, don’t stop.”

Oscar grinds his cock into Zolf, stroking him through the tremors wracking his body. “My love,” he breathes into Zolf’s shoulder. “That’s it, darling, you feel so good when you come for me, you feel so good.” He rocks Zolf on his cock, slower and slower, until Zolf slumps against him, loose and still and quiet in his arms.

Oscar strokes up and down Zolf’s spine as Zolf mouths lazily at his neck. “Are you gonna…?” Zolf shifts on Oscar’s lap, sending a jolt of pleasure through Oscar’s body, and Oscar bites down a moan. 

“Sorry, I—up you get.” Oscar eases Zolf off of him and lies back, pulling Zolf’s hand between his legs. “Maybe next time,” Oscar murmurs as Zolf takes his cock in hand, “I’ll come inside you. Would you like that?”

“Yeah, I would, you mad bastard.” Zolf kisses him, muffling Oscar’s moan as he comes, fucking up into Zolf’s fist. Zolf rests his head on Oscar’s chest, his arm loose and heavy over Oscar’s waist. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” 

Oscar smiles as he trails his fingers through Zolf’s hair. “I know.”

“God, you’re the worst.” Zolf flaps a hand at the lamp. “Could you shut that off? I’m not changin’ the damn sheets tonight.” 

It’s raining so hard that Zolf can’t see, he can’t see, and the deck of the Snapdragon is slick as ice beneath his feet. He clings to the rail with all his strength, his hands cramping with the cold, and then the ship lurches in the waves, knocking him loose, and he’s falling, and falling, and falling—

Zolf bolts awake to the dull roar of the rain outside his window. The memories twist through his mind, battering his nerves like a banner in a windstorm, and he flexes his hands, trying to ease the stiffness in the scars on his palms. He wants to press his face against Oscar’s chest, feel the low hum of his voice in his hair, breathe him in until he’s sure that Oscar’s here, he’s here, Zolf hasn’t lost him yet.

A thin strip of light glows under his bedroom door, and disappointment curdles in Zolf’s stomach. He’s not coming. Zolf curls up in his empty bed and stares blankly at the door. If he lies very still he can hear the soft click of Oscar’s keyboard down the hall, and he shuts his eyes, trying to ignore the pounding drumbeat of the storm outside. 

Chapter Text

Zolf hears Oscar before he sees him, that steady tap-tap-tap of his fingers racing over his keyboard. “Mornin’,” Zolf mutters as he plods past Oscar on his way into the kitchen. 

Oscar heaves a sigh as he pulls out his earbuds. “Good morning.”

Zolf fills the kettle and sets it to boil, bristling at Oscar’s tone. “Why d’you bother comin’ over when you know you’re not gonna go to bed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe so I can see you for a few seconds before you leave for work at the crack of dawn.” Oscar removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Can we please not do this right now? You have no idea how behind I am on my deadlines, and I just found out that I have to go back to London—”

Zolf freezes. “You’re goin’ back to London?”

“Yes.” Oscar drags his hand through his hair. “My editor at The Guardian wants me to write a profile of Hamid, of all people.”

You knew. He wasn’t yours to lose. “The man who buys all that ridiculous furniture from Sasha?”

“Yes, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan, the internationally acclaimed fantasy author who recently announced that they’ve wrapped filming on the first season of the television show based on his Flying into Fire series.” Oscar heaves another sigh as he idly pages through a stack of notes. “In the six years since my little novel received its short-lived, tepid response from the British literary world, Hamid has written three bestselling, award-winning, epic-length novels and a fucking screenplay.”  

“Where you goin’ with this?” Zolf turns to face Oscar, leaning against the counter. “You’re, what, jealous of some fantasy writer with enough money to blow more than ten thousand pounds on one of the ugliest desks I’ve ever seen in my life? Maybe don’t write his stupid profile, then.”

“Oh, if only it were that simple.” Oscar carefully straightens his notes, his face tight. “Hamid is a good friend of mine. And besides, I don’t have the luxury of turning down assignments from The Guardian. How do you suppose I’ll make rent? By cashing in on the non-existent advance for a half-finished novel no one’s going to read?”

“So put a line under it and go to London and interview your posh friend.” Zolf is distantly aware that he’s starting to lose his temper, his mind racing as a bitter, venomous bile rises in his throat. “But I’ll never understand why you’re losin’ so much sleep over a novel you know no one’s gonna read.”

The kettle clicks off, and the kitchen fills with silence as Zolf pours himself a cup of tea. When he looks up, Oscar’s eyes are cold and sharp, a brutal intensity that Zolf has seen in Sasha, in Bosz, in others who have spent sleepless nights out on the street. It kindles a deep, miserable desire to take Oscar in his arms and carry him to bed, hold him close and whisper into his hair, Let me be enough, please, let me be enough for you. But as he meets Oscar’s chilly gaze, Zolf doesn’t know how to speak without snapping, how to soften his voice and beg Oscar to stay, and he tightens his grip around his mug, letting the searing heat pressed against his palms sharpen his resolve. I don’t know how to be enough for you, just get out, get out, GET OUT—

Oscar scoffs and shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

—get out of my flat, get out of my life, leave me alone, I want to be left ALONE. Zolf looks out the window and burns his tongue on a sip of tea. “I need to get to work.”

Oscar laughs, harsh and humourless. “Of course you do.” He snaps his laptop shut and starts gathering his notes. “Just so you’re aware, I’ll be leaving this afternoon. Hamid has a busy schedule, but he might be able to fit me in tomorrow morning.” 

“Well.” Zolf takes another sip of tea, struggling to keep his voice even. “I guess this is it, then.”

There’s a heavy pause, then a rustle of paper as Oscar sets down his notes. “This is it for what, exactly?”

“For, you know.” Zolf turns to face Oscar. “For us.” 

“You have to be joking.” Oscar’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Zolf, I—” 

“What the hell did you expect to happen between us?” Zolf slams down his mug, splashing scalding tea on his hand and all over Oscar’s stupid notes. “I never wanted any of this, and don’t bloody well pretend like you ever wanted more from me. I know what you’re like.”

“Do you, now.” Oscar fixes Zolf with that cold, sharp gaze, and Zolf wants to grab Oscar by the shoulders and never let him go. He wants to run, far from this insufferable, ridiculous, impossible man lodged in his chest, trapped beneath his skin, who won’t leave him alone. He never wants Oscar to leave his sight. “Tell me, Zolf. What am I like?”

“You’re—you’re fanciful, and flighty, and a compulsive flirt who can’t even go to bed before two in the morning,” Zolf spits out. “You’re on holiday, and you tried it on with me, just like every other city boy who flounces into my café looking for the local flavour, and now you’re leaving, so that’s it. Job done. You got what you came for, didn’t you? Do you really expect me to believe that someone like you—”

“For fuck’s sake, someone like you?” Oscar sneers. “Save yourself some breath and call me a whore.”

Zolf shoves himself away from the counter, his vision blurring with rage. “I would never—”

“There was a time,” Oscar cuts in, his voice dangerously low, “when I would have eaten your food, slept in your bed, fucked you all over your flat, before vanishing from your life without a trace. But back then, men used to pay me to blow them in the toilets.” Oscar stands, gripping the edge of the kitchen table until his knuckles turn white. “And I’m not ashamed of the person I used to be, but you know what, Zolf? Sometimes people change. I am not a twenty-year-old rent boy anymore, and you have no right to tell me what I want from you.”

“Yeah, well, when I was twenty, I killed my brother,” Zolf roars back. “And you don’t—you don’t outgrow something like that. You can’t just move away and get a new job and leave it behind you, because no matter what I do, no matter where I go, he’s dead. He’ll always be dead!”

The words ring out across the kitchen, and Zolf slumps back against the counter, furiously scrubbing his arm across his burning eyes. You don’t deserve him, you’ve never deserved any of this, and now he knows, he knows. 

“Zolf,” Oscar says softly. The wood floor groans beneath Oscar’s feet until his warm, floral scent catches in Zolf’s throat. “Look at me.” 

Zolf feels his heart break in that aching, familiar place, old grief mixing with the sharp pain of new loss. “I think you should go.”

“Please, just look at me.” Oscar cups Zolf’s face, and he’s so gentle, so lovely, and Zolf doesn’t deserve this. “Even if I have to go to London for a few days, I’m not going to leave you.”

“You need to go.” Zolf knocks Oscar’s hands aside and storms over to the door. “I have to get to work.”

Oscar shakes his head, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “I’m not going to leave you.” 

Zolf clenches his hands into fists. “GET. OUT.”

“Zolf.” Oscar walks towards Zolf, slowly, carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal, then kneels before him. “Just say the word and I’ll stay.”

Oscar’s eyes are soft and sad, but his face is lined with the memory of his boundless joy, and Zolf remembers the breathless wonder of Oscar’s smile blooming beneath his hands. For a moment that memory allows Zolf to believe that he can have this, for once, that he doesn’t have to let Oscar go. He’s so brave, a part of Zolf whispers. He’s been so strong all his life, and he’ll never be afraid of you. But then Oscar reaches out and takes one of Zolf’s fists in both of his hands, soothing the tension away from Zolf’s knuckles, and his touch is so much sweeter than anything Zolf could possibly deserve. 

I’m not worth it, I’ll only ruin you with my anger and my grief. Zolf yanks his hand away, and he tightens his fist, the ghost of Oscar’s touch tugging insistently at his chest. I can’t be enough for you, I could never be enough for you, I need to be alone. “Oscar, please. Just. Please go.” He lets himself into the stairwell, slamming the door shut without looking back.

Oscar will never forget the rush of sneaking out of his parents’ house for the final time. Fear shivered up his spine as he darted through his parents’ neighbourhood, but Oscar knew how to run, and he knew where to hide, and he knew he would never look back, because these streets could take him anywhere. Oscar had smiled as he watched the sun rise over Dublin, the watery light softening the city’s ragged edges. You’ve got this. As soon as he had the money, he’d move to London or Paris or New York, some massive, dazzling city far from the clutches of his past. But for now Oscar had this, the dawn of the first day of the rest of his life, and as he turned his face to the sunlight, he made himself a promise. Your life belongs to you, and you alone. 

Things are different now. Oscar is tired of running, and he’s tired of hiding, and he’s tired of chasing something bigger, brighter, more beautiful, always just beyond his reach. 

The pearly light of daybreak spills into Zolf’s flat as Oscar sits on Zolf’s bed, stroking the faded wool quilt as he listens to the rain pattering on the roof. I suppose I was too much for you, in the end. He never did manage to make himself small enough to fit into Zolf’s neat, homely life. But he’s tired of that, too, trying to pretend he’s easy when he’s proud of being difficult. Oscar owes everything to that seventeen-year-old boy who wasn’t afraid to be too much for his parents, and he stands, straightening the quilt behind him. After all, he has a promise to keep. 

This is my life, and it belongs to me. Oscar swallows down the bitter cocktail of anger and disappointment tightening his throat as he packs up his things. His life is his work, and his work is in London. You’ll take me as I am, or not at all.

But before he goes, Oscar sets his copy of Persuasion on Zolf’s nightstand. Remember me. I was here, and I loved you. 

It rains the day that Oscar leaves. Of course it rains.

It rained when the mine collapsed, burying Feryn underground. The rain had been interminable that year, and water had leaked into one of the shafts, rotting away the support beams until the crushing weight of the earth was held back by a few mouldering threads that collapsed into dust with the force of a single kick, leaving Zolf to pick up the shattered remnants of his life and his family.

It rained when Bosz’s safety line snapped and she tumbled overboard, the rough nylon cord shredding Zolf’s palms to ribbons as the line ripped through his grasp. Her tiny face was limned in lightning for a heartstopping moment as she fell into the water, her husky voice swallowed by the storm. The rest of that night is a blur—clinging to the taffrail as the Snapdragon lurched in the waves, the sickening crack of wood, the cold, heavy silence when he plunged into the ocean. Saltwater burned his wounds as he clung to an empty crate, a vicious reminder that Bosz was gone from his bed, gone from his side, gone from his life, because he’s never been strong enough to hold on to the people he loves, not when it really counts.

The scars lining Zolf’s palms ache when it rains, which is so stupidly poetic that it makes him want to curl up in bed and never leave the house ever again. But Zolf has a café to run. So when it rains, he bakes bread, letting the rhythmic motion of kneading the dough ease his mind along with the stiffness in his hands. 

Zolf is making bao today, because Oscar left, so of course it’s raining. The fluffy little buns are even more fiddly to pleat than dumplings, and Zolf can knead the dough for the wrappers until his scars stop aching and he’s exorcised the memory of Oscar’s fingers ghosting over his knuckles as he pulled away.

The door to Coriander swings open, and heavy boots thud on the floor. A rawboned, uncertain hand settles on Zolf’s shoulder. “Alright, Zolf?” 

“Alright, Sasha.” Zolf finishes pleating a bun before handing Sasha two boxes of bao. “Top box is pork and cabbage, bottom box is chicken and onion.”

Sasha slips the boxes under her arm and scuffs the heel of her boot on the floor. “Oscar stopped by the shop a few minutes ago on his way out. Asked me to give you this.” She hands Zolf a manila envelope. 

Zolf sets the envelope on the counter, then starts pleating another bun. “Cheers.”

Sasha reaches into her pocket, and Zolf’s chest squeezes tight as she pulls out Oscar’s bright blue pen. “I said I’d nick his pen for you.” She sets the pen on top of the envelope and looks at Zolf meaningfully. “He’ll be missing that, you know.”

After Sasha leaves, Zolf tucks Oscar’s pen inside the till and opens the envelope. He pulls out the most recent draft of Bad Sons, along with a note written on tea-stained notebook paper. Under his phone number, Oscar has written a brief message.

“In the silence of night I have often wished for just a few words of love from one man, rather than the applause of thousands of people.” — Judy Garland

Just say the word.

— Oscar

Zolf crumples the note in his hand as he looks at his massive pile of bao. It’s the perfect food for travel, and the train station is only a short walk away, and if Oscar left Sasha’s shop just a few minutes ago…

The scars on Zolf’s palm tighten insistently against the crumpled paper, and he grimaces as he sets down the note and flexes his fingers. Remember. Zolf slips the draft of Bad Sons back into the envelope, then sets the mixing bowl on the scale and starts weighing out the flour for another batch of dough. He wasn’t yours to lose.

Chapter Text

MIND THE GAP. 

The warning blares across the crowded platform in Paddington Station, and Oscar shoulders his way through the sea of commuters. He manages to grab a pole just as the train lurches forward and immediately regrets his decision to take the tube. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to block out the fluorescent lights blazing overhead, and presses his aching temple against the pole.  

All Oscar needs to do is survive this train ride, this final indignity in a day of seemingly endless indignities, and he’ll be home at last. Then he can take ibuprofen and a sleeping pill and pray that this migraine disappears by tomorrow morning. But someone nearby is eating chips, and the heavy, greasy scent makes Oscar’s stomach roil. Breathe through your mouth, don’t think about food, don’t think about Zolf, don’t think about—

MIND THE GAP.

A tiny child hurtles through the car, slamming into Oscar’s leg. “Jesus christ!” Oscar yells as his knee buckles. He clings to the pole with both hands as he struggles to regain his balance, and the child trips over his suitcase, sending them both crashing to the ground.

A man scoops the sobbing child into his arms and glares at Oscar, and Oscar glares back as he recovers his suitcase and shoves it between them. I hate children. I hate parents. I hate Zolf. I hate the tube. I hate Lon—

MIND THE GAP.

The child shrieks directly in Oscar’s ear, sending a white-hot spike of agony surging behind his eyes. He leans heavily against the pole and tries to breathe through the pain, gagging as he catches another whiff of chips. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been sick on the tube, Oscar thinks, recalling a blurry night out in Vauxhall many years ago. But come on, you can make it, pull yourself together, don’t think about Zolf, just breathe, breathe, breathe—

“Alright mate?” Oscar opens his eyes to see a spotty teenager peering up at him through their fringe. They pop a chip in their mouth and wipe oily fingers on their jeans. “You look fuckin’ awful.”

Oscar’s head spins as the train lurches down the track, and he bites the inside of his cheek to ground himself. “I’m fine,” he grits out. “But could you maybe—”

MIND THE GAP.

“Cheers mate, that’s my stop.” With the crush of the crowd, Oscar gets a face full of sticky hair as the teenager exits the train, leaving behind a crumpled paper sack that reeks of grease.

Deep breath, through your mouth. Don’t think about Zolf. Just one more stop. Don’t think about Zolf. Take ibuprofen, take a sleeping pill, take a shower, go to bed. Don’t think about Zolf, don’t think about Zolf, don’t think about—

MIND THE GAP.

As Oscar exits the underground station, the wind howls through the stairwell, carrying the heady scent of exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke from the street above. He wrestles his suitcase up the final step and leans against the railing to catch his breath, greedily gulping down the cold air. Beneath the neon signs and streetlights, a misty drizzle casts an opalescent rainbow across the skyline, glazing the pavement in sweeping brushstrokes of gold and silver. Oscar closes his eyes and lets London wash over him, that electric hum of people and buses and construction and life coursing through the streets of his adopted hometown, and for a brief, breathless moment the city feels like magic.

Then a cab splashes past, dousing Oscar in rancid water. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, scrubbing his hands over his face.

The city rushes around him, cool and indifferent, as he trudges down the street towards his flat. Welcome back to London, Oscar thinks wryly. I missed you, too.

Zolf scowls at Azu, who’s glowering at him from across his flat while he rolls out a pie crust in the kitchen. “Stop looking at me like that.” 

Azu continues to glare at Zolf as she holds up the record sleeve for Alone by Judy Garland. “How many times have you listened to this album since Oscar left?” 

I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go my way by myself,
This is the end of romance
I’ll go my way by myself,
Love is only a dance

“You put this on, not me!” Zolf cries.

“Seriously, mate?” Sasha nicks an apple slice from the pie filling before Zolf can finish sealing the crust. “It was on the turntable when we got here. I’d bet my best knife you’ve played the entire record, oh…” She narrows her eyes like she’s appraising the mouldings on a bookcase. “Seven times in the last two days. But that’s not counting how many times you’ve listened to I Get the Blues When It Rains, which—”  

“For goodness sake,” Zolf snaps, cutting her off. He listened to Alone five times today and twice last night, and this morning he’d stood by the turntable for the better part of an hour, doggedly resetting the needle to the beginning of I Get the Blues When It Rains. “Why does it matter?”

“You know why it matters.” Azu strides into the kitchen and rests a warm hand on his shoulder. “Have you phoned him yet?”

Zolf shrugs her off, avoiding her gaze. “Phoned who?” 

“Stop it, Zolf,” Azu says gently. “Don’t play this game with me.” 

Her eyes are so terribly kind, and Zolf can’t stand it, he can’t stand it. “This isn’t a game, Azu,” he snarls. “This is my life. And you know what? Sometimes you don’t know what’s best for people. Sometimes you need to bugger off.”  

“Yeah, alright,” Sasha says coldly, shoving herself between Zolf and Azu. “Come on, Azu. We can pop by the chip shop on our way home.” 

Azu wraps her shawl around her shoulders, her face creased with concern. “You’ll call us if you need anything.”

Me and my shadow
Strolling down the avenue
Me and my shadow
Not a soul to tell our troubles to

The door clicks shut, leaving Zolf alone in his kitchen with far too much food. It’s better this way. The voice sounds like his own, but with a rusty, cruel edge that cuts him with every word. You’re better off alone, where you can’t hurt anyone but yourself. It’s all that you deserve.

Anger and shame grip Zolf’s throat until he slumps against the counter, his breath rough and ragged. Feryn’s trust, Bosz’s partnership, Azu’s kindness, Sasha’s camaraderie—Zolf has proven time and time again that he deserved none of it. And yet as he looks at the unbaked pie on the counter and imagines the long night looming ahead, fear settles in the pit of his stomach, a cold, heavy weight that somehow releases something fragile and a little desperate, makes him fumble for his mobile.

You’ll call us if you need anything. Azu had sounded so steady and sure, because her love wasn’t up for negotiation. Maybe her voice could drown out his own, if Zolf had only listened. Maybe it wasn’t too late to start listening, maybe Zolf could—

Azu answers on the first ring. “Hello, Zolf.” 

“Erm, hi,” Zolf says, straining to keep his voice even. “Are you at the chip shop?”

“Nearly. Why? Can we pick something up for you?”

“No, erm. Thanks though.” Zolf presses his hand over his eyes, massaging his temples. “I just wanted to say that I’m, erm, I’m sorry. For being a prick.” 

“That’s alright.” Azu’s voice softens with her smile. “Does this mean I don’t have to eat fish and chips tonight?”

“Yeah, if you wouldn’t—that is, if you wanted to come over for dinner, that’d be brilliant.”

“Alright. We’ll be right there.”

“If you could just—” Zolf swallows hard. “Please, Azu. I don’t want to talk about him tonight.”

Azu sighs, soft and resigned. “We can talk about anything you like.”

Before leaving for Wynsbury, Oscar had been trying to get a reservation at Saffron for months. So when Hamid calls the day of his interview to cancel their plans for lunch, Oscar laughs when he suggests meeting at Saffron for dinner instead. 

“No, no, no, I’ve already called ahead, and they can fit us in at seven o’clock,” Hamid assures him. “I can’t believe you haven’t been. You simply must try the b’stilla. It’s extraordinary!” 

Oscar hangs up the phone and opens his closet, staring blankly inside. What on earth is he supposed to wear tonight? Not a waistcoat, that would look silly at dinner, but not a suit, either, Oscar can’t possibly compete with Hamid’s tailor. And besides, he needs to look memorable; he hasn’t been seen out in London since January.

Oscar doesn’t love clothes so much as he loves the way clothes make him feel—that frisson of excitement when heads turn as he walks by, hushed voices whispering what on earth is he wearing, the heated gazes that linger over the fit of his trousers. It’s not about fashion, not really; it’s about making an impression. But Oscar’s completely out of practice for London society after spending months flirting with a man whose closet consists of six aprons, two pairs of jeans, and a handful of threadbare jumpers and t-shirts. Zolf would scoff at Oscar’s collection of dinner jackets and silk ties, but Oscar will never forget the way Zolf blushed when Oscar answered the door in his ratty writing clothes, how his eyes lit up when Oscar slipped on Zolf’s bathrobe that night.

Don’t think about Zolf. Think about making Hamid look overdressed. Oscar snatches a sapphire velvet blazer off the hanger, then a black silk shirt and his slimmest black jeans. With the vintage Chanel tie—no, Eldarion’s old Hermés scarf, and the shirt open at the neck, just one button too low.

When Oscar steps into Saffron at exactly ten past seven—just late enough to be fashionable without being rude—he takes a deep breath and lifts his chin. You belong here, he reminds himself, sweeping his gaze over the horribly chic crowd. You’ve always belonged here.

“Oscar!” Hamid springs up from a table tucked into a quiet corner of the restaurant and waves Oscar over. He looks annoyingly fit, with his perfectly tailored suit and flawless skin, and Oscar grips the strap of his bag to stop himself from faffing with his hair. “It’s so good to see you! My goodness, you’re looking…well!”

It’s not even a pause, really, just the barest dip in inflection. Anyone else would think Hamid’s voice had caught on his excitement over seeing an old friend for the first time in months. But Oscar notices the subtle arch to Hamid’s eyebrows, how his smile spreads just a little too wide, and he wonders if Hamid has ever seen him before without a drop of make-up on his face. 

Oscar had forgotten his concealer in a drawer back at Marie and Eldarion’s cottage, because wearing make-up around Zolf had been a complete and utter waste of time. The one time Oscar tried concealing the dark circles under his eyes, Zolf took one look at him and frowned. “You’ve got something on your face.”

Don’t think about Zolf. Think about how fabulous you look next to Hamid’s predictable Armani suit. Really, what is this, 2019? “I look awful,” Oscar says breezily, smirking as he catches the gaze of a man at the bar. “But I heard heroin chic was back in vogue this season, and if it’s glamorous to look overworked and underslept, then I suppose I have quite the advantage.” He smiles warmly at Hamid and slips into his chair, pulling out his notebook and voice recorder. “But I daresay the glow of success suits you far better than any trend ever would.”

Hamid’s interview is bright and chatty, and the b’stilla at Saffron is extraordinary—ethereally light pastry wrapped around richly spiced chicken and ricotta infused with zesty preserved lemon and mint. Zolf had made b’stilla for Tuesday dinner a few weeks back, a big, homely pie that bore little resemblance to the exquisite little package on Oscar’s plate. The local grocer didn’t carry preserved lemons, so Zolf’s b’stilla lacked that sharp, briney flavour cutting through the richness of the chicken, and the pastry was a little soggy beneath the filling. But his pie was spicier than Saffron’s, vibrant with ginger and cinnamon, and there was more than enough for everyone to have a second slice. After dinner, Sasha had put on some avant garde record that even Oscar had to admit was unlistenable, and Oscar and Azu had retaliated by singing “The Trolley Song” at the top of their lungs while they did the washing-up. Zolf had leaned against Oscar, his body shaking with laughter as he sang along, and when the song ended he’d kissed Oscar’s arm, soft and careless, before slipping away to coax Sasha into a game of cards. 

“Oscar?” Hamid says tentatively, and the memory of Zolf’s bright kitchen fades into the dim, impersonal ambiance of the restaurant around them. “Everything alright?”

“I’m so sorry, I was just—” Oscar wipes his mouth, taking a moment to gather his wits. Don’t think about Zolf, don’t think about Zolf, don’t think about Zolf. “You were absolutely right about the b’stilla, and I was just thinking about how much I’ve missed the food in London.”

Between work and Sasha and Azu, Zolf can muddle through the strange quiet that descends over his café during the daytime. But nothing keeps the ghosts at bay at night, and every time he shuts his eyes to go to sleep, Oscar perches on the edge of his bed, unzipping his grey hoodie as he chatters on and on about some rubbish book he’s supposed to be reviewing. Something about the writer’s limited understanding of tropes, and underdeveloped characters, and the value of a proper sex scene.

“I swear,” Zolf whispers into the darkness, “I could listen to you talk about anything.”

Anything? Oscar smirks, slow and sly. Is that a challenge, Zolf Smith?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zolf says, as much to himself as to Oscar.

Oscar leans down until his hair falls soft and warm against Zolf’s cheek. But you adore me when I’m ridiculous. 

Zolf turns away, curling around the ache in his chest. “No, I don’t.”

Oscar drapes an arm over Zolf’s waist. Yes, you do. 

Zolf presses his face into the pillow. “You left.”

I’m here, Zolf. Soft lips brush against Zolf’s temple, cool hands cradle his neck. I’m not going anywhere. 

Zolf clenches his jaw until his ears ring with the absence of Oscar’s voice. “For goodness sake, just leave me alone.”

It’s alright. You’re alright. Oscar pulls Zolf into the curve of his shoulder, his voice a gentle rumble in Zolf’s hair. My darling, you’re alright.  

“I’m not!” Zolf throws off the covers and drags his hands over his face, trying to scrub Oscar out of his hair. “I don’t know what to do with you!”

Just say the word.

The lamp topples over with a dull clang as Zolf jerks open the drawer of his nightstand and fumbles blindly for the manila folder inside. He yanks out the manuscript of Bad Sons, flipping to the latest chapter. 

Sometimes Shane feels more like a dream than a memory, and I wonder if I ever really loved him at all. We were so young, and our time together was slippery and surreal. I remember the thrill of Shane’s voice, his easy smile, his body arching beneath my hands, but all these years later, the memories twist through a kaleidoscope of restless days and sleepless nights until Shane nearly disappears behind a haze of longing. 

Every so often, however, I’ll attend a performance at the Royal Opera House and witness something obscenely extravagant, or extravagantly obscene—an echo of that divine decadence that made Shane extraordinary. In those moments, Shane snaps into focus, and I remember in a sudden, breathless rush exactly why I loved him.

Shane carried himself, both in and out of drag, with the absurd grace of a prima ballerina performing the role of a panto dame. Now that I’ve been to the opera, I know that Shane was a pastiche of the great classical roles en travesti. At Other London, Shane was The Queen of the Night in a latex dress and stilettos; at Gragg’s, she was Muzetta in a rhinestoned corset. And even with his face scrubbed of make-up, Shane was Cherubino in a cotton vest and cutoff jeans, irresistible as un desio ch’io non posso spiegar.

As I’ve become acquainted with the repertoire of Shane’s classical references, I’ve lost all sense of where the theatre ends and Shane begins. Because the transformative camp of theatre was as much a part of Shane as his music, their sweeping port de bras, the beauty she painted on her face. Shane wasn’t just a performer; Shane was a performance—the endless creation and recreation of Shane MacKenna. And like the greatest performances, Shane belonged to their audience, and their audience was you, and you alone.

But that year, I wanted Shane to belong to me. As winter descended over London, bitter and raw, I took to wandering aimlessly through my neighbourhood at night as I pored over my memories of our time together, searching for cracks in his character work, for a glimpse into something secret and real, anything that might prove I had witnessed more than a performance when I held Shane in my arms. With the stars nestled behind a heavy curtain of smog and shimmering lights, London smouldered with the promise of romance. I’d let the gentle moan of a sleeping city lead the shadows of my mind down echoing streets until I chased my vision of Shane back to my flat, finally exhausted enough to fall asleep. 

I was returning home from one of these walks when I found Shane waiting on my doorstep, his hair slick from the rain. He looked so small hunched against the door to my flat, and the heaviness crumpling his narrow shoulders kindled a deep, instinctive desire to take him in my arms and carry him to bed. “Shane?” I called out, jogging down the hall of my building.

“Hi.” Shane’s voice was hushed and rusty as he stood. “Sorry for showing up like this. I didn’t—I didn’t know if you’d want to see me, and I—” 

“I don’t mind.” I reached out and caught Shane’s wrist, needing to touch him, to assure myself that he was here after chasing his ghost through the streets all night. “What’s going on?” 

“I—I just—” Shane slid his hand over the inside of my forearm, his touch soft and hesitant. His skin was almost translucent against the kohl smudged along his lash line, and for a moment his eyes flashed with something hard and sharp. Then his grip tightened, his fingers digging into my arm, and I realised he was shaking. “I needed to see you.”

“Love.” I cupped Shane’s cheek, and a fragile, exquisite ache swelled to fill the space between my ribs. Maybe, my heart thrummed in my throat. Maybe, maybe, maybe. “I’m here.” 

Shane took a deep breath and nodded. “Can we talk?” 

“Of course.” I unlocked the door and tugged Shane inside. “We can do anything you like.”

Warmth bloomed over Shane’s cheekbones, and he pulled away, kneeling down to unlace his boots. “Well,” he said dryly. “I suppose I owe you another apology. I’m being terribly dramatic.”

“You don’t have to—Don’t do that.” I leaned over Shane to lock the door, and as the side of my arm brushed against his hair, he went very still. I hesitated, then let my hand settle on his shoulder. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“Let me acknowledge the drama, darling. It makes me feel alive.” But Shane leaned against my leg as he kicked off his boots, the tight line of his shoulder softening under my palm. “It’s good to see you.” 

“It’s good to see you, too.” I trailed my fingers down his arm and took his hand. “Can I—are you hungry? I can make you something.”

Shane smiled as I hauled him to his feet. “That would be lovely, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“What would you like?” I asked, leading him into the kitchen. “I’ve got eggs.”

Shane dropped my hand and wandered over to the stereo, looking for my CD collection. “Eggs sound brilliant.”

I grabbed the carton of eggs out of the pantry, then rummaged in the fridge until I found an onion and a bundle of spinach. “I’ll make an omelette.”

Shane sighed as he flipped through my CD binder. “You really don’t need to do that.” 

“Let me make you an omelette.” I poured two glasses of wine from the bottle I’d opened earlier that night, offering one to Shane. “I know how you like your eggs.”

“I know you do.” Shane accepted the glass from me, and something soft and vulnerable flickered over his face. Uncertainty, I realised. He took a long drink of wine, and a tense silence flickered between us as he stared blankly at the CD in his hand. “Do you mind if I put this on?”

I frowned as I set a pan on the stove. “Of course not.”

The stereo whined as Shane popped in the CD. Then Amy Winehouse’s voice growled through the speakers, and I knew the night was just beginning.

     They tried to make me go to rehab,
     But I said no, no, no
     Yes I’ve been black, but when I come back
     You’ll know, know, know

Shane perched on one of the old barstools I’d nicked from Gragg’s, twisting the stem of his wine glass between his palms. “Thank you so much for putting up with me tonight.”

“Not at all.” I blinked away the tears stinging my eyes as I began slicing the onion. “Sorry, it’s the—”

“I know you must’ve missed me, darling—” Shane flashed a teasing smirk “—but you don’t need to cry about it.”

“Oh, sod off.” I chucked the onions in the pan, then started cracking eggs into a bowl. “Have you missed me?” I tried to match Shane’s light, teasing tone, but it came out softer than I intended, husky and a little raw. 

“Of course.” An almost imperceptible tension quivered over Shane’s lips, that seductive whisper of uncertainty. “Of course I’ve missed you.”

     I cheated myself
     Like I knew I would
     I told you I was trouble
     You know that I’m no good

Shane dropped his gaze to his lap, and I busied myself whisking the eggs. “So. Are you gonna tell me why you showed up on my doorstep at eleven o’clock at night looking like a drowned rat?”

“Erm…” Shane swallowed, then pulled a joint out of his pocket, twirling it around his fingers. “Do you want to smoke this with me?”

Distantly, I felt the night spinning out of my hands, slowly building to a whirlwind of heat and sweat and tangled sheets that would leave me in an empty bed come sunrise, the ghost of Shane’s touch lingering over my skin. But romance clung to Shane like the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and I knew I’d do anything for him to keep looking at me like that, his eyes bright and plaintive, like I mattered. Like he needed me, if only for tonight. And maybe, just maybe, tonight wouldn’t have to end.

     You can’t keep lying to yourself like this
     Can’t believe you played yourself like this

I reached into my pocket for my lighter, tracing it as my resolve teetered on the edge of a precipice, drawn towards the unforgettable promise flickering in Shane’s eyes. Shane was always a risk, but one worth taking, no matter the cost.

I held out my lighter, flicking it open. “Yeah, alright.” 

Shane leaned across the counter, his fingers curling around the back of my hand as he drew the flame closer and inhaled. Smoke plumed around his face, and he looked dangerously beautiful through the hazy air, as heady and ephemeral as our last night together. 

Shane passed the joint and watched me take a hit, resting his chin on his hand. “One of my clients died,” he said absently. 

I exhaled a lungful of smoke in a rush. “Sorry?”

Shane tugged the joint out of my hand, holding it loosely between his fingers. “One of my clients died.”

“That’s…god.” The sweet fragrance of caramelised onions cut through the smoke, and I went to the stove to pour in the eggs. “What happened?” I pulled plates out of the cabinet, watching him over my shoulder.

“He overdosed. I think on cocaine, but I…He used a lot of drugs.” Shane hugged one of his knees to his chest and took a long drag, dropping his head back on the exhale. “Never with me, though.”

     I love you much, it’s not enough
     You love blow and I love puff
     And life is like a pipe
     And I’m a tiny penny rollin’ up the walls inside

I turned to the stove and dropped a handful of spinach into the pan before folding the omelette. “Were you close?”

“I don’t know,” Shane snapped. “I fucked him twice a month for almost a year, but I never learned his last name.”

I tipped the omelette onto a plate and went to him, unsure of what to say. Without looking up, he wordlessly offered me the joint, and I took a hit, holding the smoke in my lungs until the room twisted around Shane’s face. The high buzzed through my veins, heightening the tension of his collarbones straining beneath his skin, and I was afraid he might shatter if I touched him, his delicate bones splintering under my hands like a sheet of ice. But I couldn’t stay away, and I rubbed gentle circles into his back, soothing over the ridges of his spine, the crest of his shoulder blades.

Shane picked up the fork and carefully took a bite of the omelette. As he chewed, he slumped forward, the tension melting from his body. “This is so good,” he whispered, and started to cry. 

     Though I battle blind
     Love is a fate resigned
     Memories mar my mind
     Love, it is a fate resigned

I wrapped Shane in my arms. “Love,” I murmured into his hair. “Love, love, love.”

“I’m sorry.” Shane wiped his eyes, his voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh, no, you’re alright.” I rubbed his arms, his shoulders, his chest. He was so cold. Shane was always so cold; you had to hold him close, skin on skin, press his icy hands against your neck, kiss his lips until he was warm and sighing beneath you. “You’re alright. I’ve got you. Everything’s alright.”

Shane picked up the joint from where I’d dropped it on the plate, and the cherry flared bright as he inhaled. “I believe you, you know,” he said, smoke trailing from his lips. “I’ll believe anything you say, when you talk like that.”

I reached for the joint, and our hands tangled together, brief and spectacular. “Talk like what?” 

“You know.” Shane’s voice was low and syrupy, as though he were in a trance. “Your doctor’s voice.”

     It’s my responsibility
     And you don’t owe nothing to me
     But to walk away I have no capacity

The hit fizzled over my skin, blurring the boundaries between our bodies. Where do I begin? I pressed into the curve of Shane’s neck, the edge of his shoulder digging into my throat as I traced his slender forearm, his wrist, his thumb. Shane gasped, and I felt my ribs expand with his breath. Where do you end?  

“What do you want from me?” I asked. 

Shane turned to look at me, his eyes vanishingly black behind the screen of smoke. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

I nodded. Anything you want. Anything at all. Fingers brushed over lips, stained red with cheap wine. “Merlot lips. Like the night we met. Do you remember?”

“I wanted to kiss you.” Shane touched my face, his fingers tangling in my beard. “To feel you against my skin.”

I dragged on the joint, then leaned down and exhaled into Shane’s mouth, cupping his neck to feel the dramatic rush of smoke flowing down his throat. Shane moaned softly as I dipped forward to taste the wine on our lips, heat flickering sticky and bright. His breath shivered over my tongue, and he tasted like the night sky over London, heavy and hazy and full of unspoken promise. 

“Isaac,” Shane whispered. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

     The dark covers me and I cannot run now
     My blood running cold, I stand before him
     It’s all I can do to assure him

“Yeah.” I stubbed out the joint and slid my hand over Shane’s wrist, breathless with the desire for him to kiss me again, to touch me, to say my name. “If this is all you want, this is enough for me.”

“Don’t do that.” Shane flicked his gaze down to where my thumb was pressed against his pulse and shut his eyes. “You’re not fooling anyone.” 

“I know.” I stroked the damp curls away from Shane’s forehead. “Tell me you don’t want to stay tonight, and I’ll let you go.”

“I can’t…” Shane’s voice faltered, and he shook his head. “God, you’re so…”

I held Shane tighter, my hand in his hair. “So what?” 

“I don’t know.” Shane buried his face in my chest. “Just don’t let me go, don’t you dare let me go.” 

     He can only hold her for so long
     The lights are on, but no one’s home
     She’s so vacant
     Her soul is taken
     He thinks, What’s she running from?

“You’ll stay tonight,” I said softly. Shane nodded, and I kissed his forehead. “Good. Now eat your omelette.”

Oscar sidles up to Zolf, resting his head on his shoulder. Do you remember, he whispers in Zolf’s ear, when you helped me write this scene?

Zolf had been reading in his armchair when Oscar had appeared at his shoulder, restlessly twirling his pen around in his fingers. “I need your help with something,” he said. “Do you know what shotgunning is?”

“Yeah, reckon I can help with that,” Zolf said, setting aside his book. “It’s that thing American kids do in uni. Where you stab a can of beer and neck it all at once.”

“What?” Oscar pulled a face. “That sounds awful.”

“It’s good fun, actually. Why, d’you want to get pissed on cheap beer?”

“Jesus, no. I can’t stand beer. I’m talking about shotgunning smoke. You take a drag, and then—” Oscar leaned down and brushed their lips together, his breath flickering into Zolf’s mouth. “Then you breathe the smoke into someone else’s mouth.”

“Mmm.” Zolf grabbed a handful of Oscar’s hoodie, tugging him closer for a proper kiss. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Oh, I think you know why.” Oscar toyed with the end of Zolf’s beard. “I need you to help me block a scene where Isaac smokes a joint with Shane.”

Zolf raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to get high with you?”

“Maybe.” Oscar took Zolf’s hand and smirked, slow and sly. “Are you offering to get high with me?”

“Sure, if you like.” Zolf let Oscar haul him to his feet, feeling absurdly like a teenager sneaking out to smoke cigarettes with his crush. “I’ve got something we could smoke around here somewhere, if you’re interested.”

“Incredible.” A delighted laugh slipped out of Oscar’s mouth as Zolf led him into the kitchen. “Yes, absolutely, one thousand percent yes, there is quite literally nothing in the world I’d rather do than get stoned with you tonight.”

“Well, whatever weed I’ve got is very, very, very old.” Zolf rummaged around in his pantry until he found his ancient stash, then grabbed a tin of tobacco and an old pipe. “Probably won’t do a whole lot for us, to be honest. But I’ll mix in some tobacco so it doesn’t taste like total shite.”

Oscar sat at the kitchen table, watching Zolf pack the bowl. “You are full of surprises, my darling.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I adore surprises.” Oscar picked up the tobacco tin and examined the label. “I had no idea you smoked.”

Zolf shrugged. “Not as much as I used to. But yeah, sometimes. Just tobacco, mostly.”

“That’s a filthy habit,” Oscar said lightly, setting the tin aside.

Zolf scoffed good-naturedly. “You’re a filthy habit.”

Oscar beamed at Zolf as though he’d never received such a lovely compliment in his entire life. “I’m your filthy habit.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zolf popped open the window, letting in a rush of cold air. “Tell me what you’re tryin’ to write.”

“Go sit across from me.” Oscar stood up, pocketing Zolf’s lighter. “Ask me if I want to smoke that with you.”

“D’you—”

“Wait! We need music!” Oscar dashed into the sitting room. “I don’t suppose you have Back to Black?”

“Absolutely not,” Zolf called back.

“How about Blue by Joni Mitchell? Oh my god, no, nevermind, this is perfect.” Oscar waved Alone over his head triumphantly. “I completely forgot Judy had a break-up album!”

“Look, d’you want to smoke this with me or not?”

“Yes, of course I do, hold on,” Oscar huffed as he fiddled with the turntable. “Let me set the mood!”

I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go my way by myself,
This is the end of romance
I’ll go my way by myself,
Love is only a dance

Oscar sauntered back into the kitchen and leaned against the table, smiling coyly at Zolf. “Alright. Now say your line.” 

“Fine.” Zolf rolled his eyes. “D’you want to smoke this with me?”

Oscar held out the lighter, flicking it open. “Alright.” 

“Alright then.” Zolf leaned across the table and cupped the back of Oscar’s hand to draw the flame closer, then puffed the pipe. He sat back and blew a massive smoke ring at Oscar’s face. “How’s that?” 

“Ooohhh, look at you!” Oscar clicked his fingers over the ring, turning it into a wispy heart. “How’s that?”

Zolf scoffed and took another hit, then passed the pipe to Oscar. “Go easy. It’s a bit harsh.”

Oscar grimaced as he dragged on the pipe, hissing out the smoke between gritted teeth. “Christ, that’s disgusting.”

Zolf snorted and held out his hand. “Then give it here.”

“No, stop it, you’re so bloody impatient!” Oscar slipped behind Zolf’s chair, holding the pipe out of reach. The cherry crackled faintly, and smoke curled around them as Oscar leaned down, offering Zolf the pipe. Zolf lifted the pipe to his lips, chuckling when Oscar nuzzled into his neck. “Good things come to those who wait,” Oscar murmured, his voice bright with his smile.

Too long I held you close to my heart
Too much I loved you right from the start
Too soon you vanished out of my dreams
Too late to start all over, it seems

Zolf took a hit, holding the smoke in his lungs until a gentle high hummed over his skin and the world narrowed around the brush of Oscar’s lips along his neck, tender and incandescent. A breeze flowed through the open window, slipping over them like a crisp cotton sheet, and Zolf wanted to hide beneath the covers with Oscar forever, build a pillow fort to keep him warm, keep him close, keep him here. “Oscar,” Zolf sighed. “I can’t—I—you’re…”

“Talk to me, love.” Oscar kissed Zolf’s fluttering pulse as he traced a lazy path over the muscles of Zolf’s forearm, his wrist, his thumb. Zolf sucked in a breath, and Oscar’s chest swelled against his shoulder, his hand coming up to cradle the side of Zolf’s face. “Look at me.”

Zolf turned to face Oscar, and he looked devastatingly beautiful through the hazy air, with the silver at the roots of his hair glinting in the lamplight. “I don’t know what to do with you,” Zolf whispered, his heart in his throat.

“Anything you want,” Oscar whispered back, the words soft and familiar as the thin cotton of his t-shirt. “Anything at all.” 

There’s nothing left for me of days that used to be
There’s just a memory among my souvenirs

Oscar brushed his fingers over Zolf’s lips as he searched Zolf’s face. “Do you remember the day we met?” 

“God, yes.” Zolf leaned into Oscar’s touch, capturing his wrist. “How could I possibly forget? You were such an insufferable prick.”

“I was flirting with you! You were the prick!” Oscar reached for the pipe, and their hands tangled together. “I was just thinking, would you look at how far we’ve come? Now you’re smoking with the enemy.”

“The enemy being pretty boys from London with really nice bums?” Zolf teased, palming Oscar’s arse.

“And excellent taste in romance novels.” Oscar flicked open the lighter and puffed the pipe to relight the bowl. “Alright. Are you ready for me?”

Zolf tugged Oscar closer and kissed his arm. “Dunno if I’ll ever be ready for you.”

It was raining dear, when I met you
You smiled, the sun shone through
Then it rained again and I lost you
Just why, I never knew

Oscar dragged on the pipe, then leaned down and exhaled into Zolf’s mouth, his hand cool and soft on the side of Zolf’s neck. Just at the end of his breath, Oscar dipped forward to kiss him, his breath shivering over Zolf’s tongue, and he tasted like an autumn bonfire, smokey and sultry and vibrant. Something fierce and bright flared in Zolf’s chest as he gathered Oscar in his arms, because Oscar was somehow too much and never enough, an insufferable, beautiful paradox that fell into his lap like Dorothy’s house dropping into Oz, and Zolf needed him closer, would always need him closer. 

“Oh!” Oscar burst into laughter as he tumbled into Zolf’s lap, his hand braced on Zolf’s chest. “Hello!”

“Hey.” Zolf buried his face in Oscar’s neck and tried to memorise that warm, floral fragrance, like cardamom and…something honeyed and lush, the voluptuous scent of velvety petals in every colour of the rising sun. Roses. Laughter bubbled up from Zolf’s chest, giddy and bright. You smell like cardamom and roses.

Happiness, I guess, is just a memory
Just a memory of a love that used to be

“What on earth are you snickering at?” Oscar cuffed Zolf’s shoulder. “Stop laughing at me! I haven’t even done anything, and you’re just sitting there, laughing at me!”

“You smell like a love cake, you twat,” Zolf said, his voice rumbling with laughter. “A bloomin’ love cake.”

“A love cake?” Oscar sounded pleased and a little shy. “What’s a love cake?”

“It’s a sponge cake, with honey—” Zolf trailed his lips down Oscar’s throat, marking each word with a kiss “—and lemon zest, and cinnamon, and nutmeg, and cardamom, and rose water.” 

“That sounds lovely,” Oscar said breathlessly. 

You’re lovely. “It’s Azu’s favourite cake. I think you’d like it, too.” 

“Would you make one for me?” Oscar’s voice was soft and hesitant, as though a love cake was the most extraordinary gift he could ever ask for. As though Zolf wouldn’t bake Oscar a thousand cakes, anything he wanted, anything at all. 

“Of course.” Zolf kissed Oscar, long and slow and sweet, until Oscar arched up against him, gasping into his mouth. I can’t get enough of you. Oscar’s heartbeat thundered against Zolf’s chest, and he was warm, and he was close, and he was here, and it still wasn’t enough. I’ll never get enough of you. 

“My filthy habit,” Zolf murmured into the kiss, stroking Oscar’s hair behind his ear. “That’s what you are. Aren’t you, love?”

Desire bloomed across Oscar’s face like a storm at sunset, darkening his eyes and staining his cheeks. “Yes,” he whispered. 

All the love I could steal, beg, or borrow
Wouldn’t heal all this pain in my soul.
What is love but a cradle to sorrow
With a heartbreak ahead for your goal

Zolf ran a hand up Oscar’s thigh, ghosting his thumb over the hard line of his cock straining at the seam of his joggers, and Oscar moaned, his head falling against the curve of Zolf’s neck. “God, you’re so…” Zolf trailed off, his lips on Oscar’s collarbone.

Oscar curled around Zolf’s body, pressing closer. “So what?” 

“You’re so easy.” Zolf kissed Oscar’s neck, his lips, his cheek, his forehead. “Easy to kiss, easy to touch, easy to fuck.” Oscar chuckled, and Zolf slumped apologetically against his shoulder. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean—it’s not like that.”

Oscar hummed as he carded his fingers through Zolf’s hair. “It’s a little like that.”

“What I mean is, you’re so easy to please.” Zolf looked up at Oscar, tracing his jaw with his thumb. “You make everything so easy that it’s hard to stop touching you. And when you smile…” A soft smile spread across Oscar’s face, and Zolf sighed as Oscar’s cheeks creased beneath his fingers. “Don’t do that to me, love. I’ll never let you go.”

Oscar dipped forward, hiding his face in Zolf’s shoulder. “Who says you have to let me go?”

Zolf frowned as the wind swept through the window and Oscar shivered in his arms. “The cold, maybe,” Zolf said, lifting Oscar off his lap. “We should be getting to bed, anyways.”

“No, wait, I—” Oscar clutched at Zolf’s neck. “I can’t go to sleep just yet. I have to write this down before I forget, but I…” He pressed his face against Zolf’s chest. “Could you hold me just a little longer?”

Come to bed, and I’ll hold you all night, Zolf didn’t say. I’ll hold you every night, as long as you’re here; I’ll hold you as long as you’ll let me. “Alright, love,” he said simply, and held Oscar tighter. 

If you never had to count a million sheep,
Then you’ve never been blue, never been blue.
If you’ve never had to cry yourself to sleep,
Then you’ve never been blue, never been blue

Zolf sets aside the draft of Bad Sons, his throat painfully tight. “Of course I remember,” he whispers.

It’s close enough to 4 a.m. that Zolf gives up on falling asleep and straps on his prosthesis before hauling himself out of bed. As he puts the kettle on, his eyes fall on the package by his spice rack. He hadn’t been able to make Oscar a love cake, in the end—he’d needed to order more rose water, and the shipment arrived a few days after Oscar left. Zolf opens the package while he waits for the kettle to boil and pulls out the bottle of rose water inside. He pops off the lid, breathing in that honeyed, lush scent, and it’s like…like reading the latest chapter of Bad Sons, disarming and familiar and not quite right all at once, an unexpected clue to a puzzle he didn’t know he needed to solve. He sniffs the rose water again and tastes Oscar’s smoky, sultry breath shivering over his tongue, feels Oscar’s heartbeat thundering against his chest, hears Oscar whisper, Anything you want. Anything at all.  

The kettle shrieks, jolting Zolf out of his reverie, and he frowns as he goes to pour his tea. There’s something there, another story hidden between the lines, flowing from the junction of memory and fiction, truth and desire. Maybe, maybe, maybe…a risk, but one worth taking, no matter the cost…don’t let me go, don’t you dare let me go…

Who says you have to let me go?

Zolf retrieves the manuscript from the bedroom, settles in at the kitchen table with his tea, and starts rereading Bad Sons from the beginning.

Chapter Text

It’s a quarter to midnight on Oscar’s first Friday back in London, and the deadline for Hamid’s profile looms on the horizon like a coming storm. Not because Oscar is behind on his work—he’s actually ahead of schedule—but he hasn’t slept since…god, Wednesday? Yes, since Wednesday afternoon, because he couldn’t possibly sleep with Sleater-Kinney screaming in his ears, loud enough to drown out any thoughts beyond his column, an essay, a book review, and, finally, Hamid’s profile. 

After spending close to an hour editing a single sentence, Oscar pulls out his headphones and stares dully at his laptop until the screen fades to black and his unshaven reflection glowers back at him like some kind of horrible doppelganger specially created to ruin his reputation. What is wrong with you? Even in the ghastly, distorted image of his laptop screen, he can see the streaks of grey peeking through at his greasy roots, and he passes a hand over his face, trying to scrub away this lovesick, pathetic version of himself. Pull yourself together.

Before he can ruin Hamid’s profile with his self-indulgence, Oscar emails his editor the final draft, slams his laptop shut, and shoves his headphones back in his ears.

The night is bitter, the stars have lost their glitter
The winds grow colder, and suddenly you’re older
And all because of the man that got away

It’s a quarter to midnight on the first Friday since Oscar left Wynsbury, and Zolf won’t sleep until he finds that quote from Bad Sons, that one quote, what was it, they were on the tube, and…

“Are you a full-time drag queen?”

“That’s the goal.” Shane glanced to the side, as though something had caught his eye at the edge of his vision, and for a fleeting moment something soft and vulnerable flickered over his face. It made him look terribly young, and I suddenly felt the urge to tug him closer and pull him down against my chest. “I was studying music at UAL, but I’m taking some time off. See if I can’t make this work.” 

Soft and vulnerable and terribly young. Zolf thinks of the colour gilding Oscar’s fine cheekbones when Zolf kissed him for the first time on the sofa in Coriander. Oscar shivering beneath him, whispering, Zolf, please, I’ll do anything. The broken rush of Oscar’s breath when Zolf agreed to be his boyfriend. Oscar’s eyes, the deep, vivid brown of the earth after a spring rain, as he knelt before Zolf, his fingers brushing tenderly over Zolf’s knuckles. Just say the word and I’ll stay.

Oscar was impossibly lovely when desire left him soft and vulnerable, but he didn’t look young. He looked older, when sincerity swept away his bright smile to reveal the fine lines around his eyes and lips, the years of life and laughter etched into his face. Oscar looked… 

Zolf shuffles into the sitting room, resetting the needle on the record resting on the turntable. 

No more his eager call
The writing’s on the wall
The dreams you dreamed have all gone astray

Pain hammers behind Oscar’s eyes as he sips from a mug of lukewarm, acrid coffee, his stomach churning in protest. When did he last eat? Last night? No, it was that repulsive bag of crisps he dug out of his pantry this morning. 

Oscar sets his coffee aside and flops on the bed. The benefits of living in a studio flat, he thinks wryly. At least the bed is always nearby. He shuts his eyes, and Zolf sits beside him, removing his prosthesis as he grumbles about a customer who got testy after the croissants sold out just after eleven o’clock. 

“I swear,” Oscar whispers into the darkness, “I would walk all the way to Wynsbury just for one of your croissants.”

The man that won you has run off and undone you
That great beginning has seen its final inning
Don’t know what happened, it’s all a crazy game

Oscar looked hopeful. 

Zolf slumps into his armchair and lets Judy’s voice settle over his chest, dark and heavy as a raincloud. You looked so hopeful. 

No more that all time thrill
For you’ve been through the mill
And never a new love will be the same

Zolf grins as though Oscar has said something terribly clever, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and touches the pad of his thumb to the corner of Oscar’s lips. Oscar flushes warm under the memory of Zolf’s touch, and Zolf tilts Oscar’s face up to meet his gaze. You’re blushing .

Oscar inhales slowly, his throat unbearably tight. “I’m being ridiculous.”

Don’t say that. Zolf kisses Oscar’s arm, soft and careless. I love it when you’re like this.

“I miss you.” Oscar clenches his jaw, swallowing down the vicious ache splintering his chest. “I hate that I miss you.”

Good riddance, good-bye
Every trick of his you’re on to
But fools will be fools
And where’s he gone to?

London, Zolf thinks bitterly. You’ve gone to London. He flips through Bad Sons until he finds the quote about London from chapter one.

It was one of those slippery summer nights in London that follows a day of rain, when the syrupy air clings to your skin and catches in your throat while the city rushes around you. I still loved living in London, then, still thought the city was the most miraculous thing I’d ever seen. And Shane was unimaginably beautiful, his dark hair stained red and gold under the street lights as he swaggered down the sidewalk. A frisson of excitement rushed through me as I walked beside this extraordinary boy in this extraordinary city, as far from home as I could possibly imagine.

What could you possibly hope to find in Wynsbury that you don’t already have in London? There was nothing like Oscar in Wynsbury, and up until a few weeks ago, Zolf wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

The road gets rougher, it’s lonelier and tougher
With hope you burn up, tomorrow he may turn up
There’s just no let up the livelong night and day

Alright, Oscar? Zolf murmurs, his beard scratching Oscar’s cheek.

“No, absolutely not, I am nowhere near alright.” Oscar massages the ache throbbing sharply in his temple, nauseating and ruthless. “I have a fucking migraine, and I’m listening to Judy fucking Garland on a Friday night, and—oh god—” his stomach lurches violently, and he gags, tearing at his hair “—and I’m going to be sick, and I’m in love with you.”

I love you, too, Zolf whispers in Oscar’s ear.

No, Zolf wouldn’t say that, would he? He’d scoff and look at his hands, or smile that hesitant little smile, or smirk and say, you mad bastard.

Yes, that’s the one. You mad bastard, Zolf grumbles, his eyes the soft, opalescent green of the ocean on a summer afternoon. 

“Goddamnit,” Oscar groans, clutching his stomach as he lurches to his feet and stumbles towards the bathroom. “God fucking damnit.” 

Ever since this world began there is nothing sadder than
A one-man woman looking for the man that got away

“You mad bastard,” Zolf grumbles, switching off the record player. “I’m glad you’re gone.” 

He walks into the bedroom, and as he sets Bad Sons aside, a slim lavender book wedged between the bedside table and the mattress catches his eye. Zolf digs it out, frowning when he recognizes Persuasion by Jane Austen. He’d never had the chance to talk to Oscar about Jane Austen, “the Harrison Campbell of the Regency period,” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. 

Zolf idly flips through the book, and his heart leaps into his throat when he recognises Oscar’s looping, extravagant handwriting beside an underlined passage. 

She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.

In the margins, Oscar has scrawled, Z = sequel to Bad Sons.

“What the—what,” Zolf splutters, sitting heavily on the bed. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

The man that got away…

Oscar yanks out his headphones and collapses over the toilet as nausea wracks his body, brutal and relentless, his ribs heaving with excruciating force until he vomits up a stream of rank coffee. He drags his hair away from his face, retching helplessly as his body desperately tries to empty his painfully empty stomach. “I hate this,” Oscar gasps into the toilet bowl. “I fucking hate this.” 

Oscar’s mobile vibrates in his pocket, and he drags his mouth across his sleeve before answering the call. “There is nothing romantic about heartbreak,” he croaks, rocking back on his heels.

“Darling, I could’ve told you that,” Eldarion says without missing a beat. “Happy birthday.”

“Shit.” Oscar slumps onto the floor, pressing his temple against the blessedly cool tile. “Is it Saturday already?” 

“Are you really losing track of the days? Don’t you have deadlines?”

“I never miss my deadlines. But birthdays…” Oscar curls in on himself and groans, peeling a sticky lock of hair off his cheek. “Maybe we can skip this one this year.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Eldarion says. “You love your birthday.” 

“I hate my birthday.” Oscar grits his teeth as pain spikes behind his eyes. “But it’s the only day of the year I can get the both of you to go out with me.” He screws up his face and blows air out of his cheeks, trying to breathe through a fresh wave of nausea.  “Look, I need to let you go. I have a migraine and a broken heart and I think I’m going to die. But if I manage to survive the night, tell Marie we’re going to see Cel’s new show tomorrow. Meet me at The Bolthole at eight.”

“Hello.”

Zolf raises his eyebrows at the unfamiliar Northern accent and sets aside Persuasion, flashing a perfunctory little smile. “What can I get for you?”

“I’m James.” James smiles stiffly and offers a hand. “James Barnes.”

“Ah.” Zolf reluctantly shakes James’s hand. It’s rough with calluses, the hardened palm of an able seaman, and Zolf just manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes at James’s neatly tapered regulation haircut. “Alright. Can I get you a coffee?”

“I’m looking for work, actually.” James tucks his hands behind his back and snaps to attention. “Azu, the owner of Love Letters, she said you might be hiring.”

Zolf lets out a laugh, short and harsh. “Did she now?”

“Aye, she did.” James’s eyes are steady and unreadable as he meets Zolf’s gaze. “And she said to mention she’d be by later.” 

Fucking Azu. Zolf shoves Oscar’s pen to the back of the till as he digs out a pencil, then prints a short length of blank receipt paper. “Here. Write down your phone number, and I’ll get back to you.”

As James leans over the counter to write down his number, the neck of his shirt gapes open. Zolf catches a glimpse of two small letters tattooed below his collarbone— A.N., scratched in an unsteady hand, the surrounding skin raw and warped with freshly healed scars. 

Zolf freezes, the letters tattooed on his own chest prickling beneath his shirt. In many ways, the memory is sharper than the night Bosz died. Zolf can still feel the savage burn of the needle biting into his skin as he inked her initials over his heart, tears stinging his eyes as he struggled to remember the last thing Bosz ever said to him, what was wrong with him, why couldn’t he remember what she said? 

It’s been more than a decade since Zolf has been at sea, but he would recognize the line work of a grieving sailor anywhere. 

Zolf looks up at Barnes, and Barnes carefully straightens his shirt. “Alexi,” Barnes says softly. “His name was Alexi.” 

“Right.” Zolf picks up the paper and stares blankly at the phone number. “Erm. Well. Alright then. I’ll, erm—thanks.”

Barnes nods stiffly and turns to leave. “Alright.” 

“You can start tomorrow,” Zolf blurts out. “Can you be here at eight?”

Oscar arrives at The Bolthole at seven and orders a gin and tonic, then another, and another, and another, as he watches his favourite club slowly fill with impossibly young, gender-indeterminate people. The Bolthole isn’t as filthy as it was when Oscar first moved to London, and every year it feels like the clientele somehow gets younger. Did I really look like that when I was eighteen? Oscar wonders, eyeing a skinny brunette in acid-washed jeans. But The Bolthole has always had the best drag in East London—really, in all of London, but Oscar will keep that opinion to himself as long as Eldarion, living drag legend of North London, is around. 

“Oscar, darling.” Eldarion sweeps into the club, towering over the crowd in her Louboutins. Speak of the devil. She looks outrageously stunning in a black lace dress with billowing bishop sleeves, her porcelain skin glowing beneath the diaphanous fabric. “There you are.”

“For goodness sake,” Oscar calls out. “Are you wearing vintage Dior?”

“Don’t be vulgar.” Eldarion flicks her platinum hair over one shoulder, and the skinny brunette gapes up at her, stars in their eyes. “It’s Yves Saint Laurent.” 

“Happy birthday, you degenerate,” Marie says, appearing at Oscar’s side. She swipes Oscar’s drink and takes a sip, eyeing his face thoughtfully. “How many have you had?” 

“Nowhere near enough.” Oscar drains his drink and gestures for another. “Let’s get to the front so you can see.”

An hour later, after a parade of other drag performers have taken the stage, the curtains swing open, and noxious purple lights glitter off an elaborate chemistry kit atop a steel workbench. A thick fog hisses across the stage, and a projection of Geena Davis in The Fly ripples over the haze.

“Be afraid.” The crowd screams as Cel Sidebottom rises from the mist, chartreuse hair teased into a mass of wild curls. Their signature goggles sparkle under the lights as they spread their arms wide overhead. “Be very afraid.”

Cel holds the pose until the club falls into an uneasy silence, and the lights flicker ominously. They reach towards the audience and sweep downstage, their voluminous lab coat flaring around them, and the song begins to play.

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh
Caught in a bad romance

Marie groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “For the love of god, not Lady Gaga.” 

Somewhere beneath the dreamy buzz of gin softening his vision, Oscar is right there with Marie. But after god knows how many gin and tonics, Oscar finds himself mouthing the words to the song, his throat tightening with every kick of the electric drum. Because every song sounds profound when he’s surrounded by drunk queers at a drag show, the heat of the crowd pressed against his skin like an embrace from an old friend.

Jeff Goldblum’s voice cuts over the music. “I know what the disease wants.” Cel begins faffing with the beakers, pouring rusty, viscous liquids into a conical flask. “It wants to…turn me into something else. That’s not too terrible is it? Most people would give anything to be turned into something else.”

Pain flares against his palm, and Oscar realises he’s gripping the rough edge of the stage like Zolf’s kitchen table, a dark, heavy weight knotting his stomach. A pathetic part of Oscar would give anything to become someone else. Someone warm and gentle and sweet; someone Zolf would have asked to stay. 

Cel necks the potion, then slowly turns to face the audience. They grin, wide and sinister, and a torrent of crimson flows from their mouth, dripping in syrupy rivulets down their lab coat and onto the stage as Lady Gaga’s voice rings out across the club.

I want your love, and I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oscar sips his drink as he watches Cel crawl across the stage, and his treacherous heart wonders what Zolf would think of Cel’s mad-scientist-meets-circus-clown-meets-stripper drag. He wants to curl up in bed with Zolf and ask him what he thinks constitutes “a bad romance.” Is When Passions Collide a bad romance because Harrison Campbell books are sold on spinning racks in dime stores and airports? Is Bad Sons a bad romance because Isaac and Shane would be denied a happily-ever-after? Or maybe Gaga’s right, maybe a bad romance is about the particular, toxic chemistry between two people who aren’t compatible, not really, but keep coming back for more. Because Oscar can run back to London, but he can’t escape that fragile, exquisite ache swelling in his chest, weaving stories in his head, transforming Lady Gaga’s inane lyrics into something profound.

Cel strides to the front of the stage as the music cuts out, giving way to Jeff Goldblum’s voice. “You’re afraid to dive into the plasma pool, aren’t you?” They rip off their goggles, and violet, slit-pupiled eyes flash accusingly at the audience. “You’re afraid to be destroyed and recreated, aren’t you?” 

How different was Oscar’s time in Wynsbury, really, from leaving home at seventeen, or starting uni at twenty-six, or publishing his first novel at thirty-seven? But things are different now, because Zolf had kissed his palm and whispered, I love that you’re too much.

Zolf had taken Oscar’s breath away with those words, spoken with such reverence and wonder, and Oscar wanted so badly to believe him. Because in Zolf’s arms, Oscar could loosen the set of his shoulders, soften his sharp tongue, hide his face in Zolf’s chest for as long as he liked. Loving Zolf felt so good, so right, so easy that Oscar allowed himself to hope that he might be easy to love, too. 

But it was easier to let me go, wasn’t it? The realisation slams into Oscar with the force of Cel leaping onto the workbench, the hard soles of their heels clashing against the metal surface. Gin burns down Oscar’s throat, and for a moment he’s seventeen again, frigid air searing his lungs as he darts through the backstreets of Dublin. It’s always been easier to let me go.

The crowd explodes as Cel rips off their wig, revealing spiny, reptilian ridges cresting over their skull. Cel winks at Oscar as dark, moody guitars punch through the speakers—the seething riff of “Call the Doctor” by Sleater-Kinney.

Oscar laughs in disbelief, clutching his chest. “Yes,” he yells, his voice swallowed by the roar of the crowd. “I love you, Cel, I fucking love you!”

They want to socialize you
They want to purify you
They want to dignify and analyze and terrorize you

It was the summer of 1996, and Oscar was nineteen years old, and Cel was the first person in London who let Oscar spend the night without fucking him. Oscar had lain beside Cel on a bare mattress, talking for hours while Sleater-Kinney wailed through the tinney speakers of Cel’s stereo. Cel was stunning and brilliant and fearless, everything Oscar dreamed he’d find when he left home, and for the first time since arriving in London, Oscar felt something akin to homesickness. Not for Dublin, but for a tiny room littered with zines and CDs and rhinestones, with a mattress on the floor and a cheap stereo, where he could listen to Call the Doctor over and over and over until the turbulent, unapologetic music was seared into his soul, a fierce validation of his rage and heartache. For somewhere, anywhere he wouldn’t have to leave in the morning. 

When the unforgiving light of dawn trickled through the blinds, Oscar held on tight to his anger, because boys didn’t cry, and because self-pity was a luxury he couldn’t afford. “I hate them,” he said abruptly, pressing his face into the crook of his arm. “I just—I hate them.” 

Oscar wasn’t sure he could bring himself to explain who “them” was—an impossibly long list that began with his parents and ended with the man who grabbed his arse the night before—but Cel didn’t ask. “I hate them, too,” they said softly, wrapping an arm around Oscar’s shoulders. “But it gets better. I promise you, it gets better.”

You kept your promise. Cel grins at Oscar as they lip sync the lead vocals on “Call the Doctor,” and Oscar beams back, belting out the backing part with all the sound and fury of a broken-hearted queer. 

This is love and you can’t make it
(Look out, they want what you know)
In a formula or shake me
(Steal a kid, break a heart, steal the show)
I’m your monster, I’m not like you
(Peel back the skin, see what’s there)
All your life is written for you
(I’ll never show you what’s in here)

The lights blur around Cel as they cartwheel off the workbench, and Oscar blinks frantically until his vision clears. He can’t cry—not because he’s a boy, but because it’s his birthday, and he can’t, it’s too bloody maudlin. But he’s so proud of Cel and Eldarion and Marie, these extraordinary queers who raised him. And Oscar is here, standing by their side, and life at forty-four couldn’t be more beautiful when he’s watching his favourite drag queen perform at The Bolthole and singing Sleater-Kinney at the top of his lungs. 

We make it work. We always do. Oscar has a family who loves him unconditionally, and that’s enough; that’s more than enough. But he can’t help but imagine the warm weight of Zolf pressed against his side, his voice rumbling with laughter as he sings along, because Oscar wants, he wants, he’s sick with wanting.

The music grinds to a halt, and the final transformation scene from The Fly projects onto the back of the stage. “We’ll be the ultimate family.” Cel turns their back to the audience and rips open the lab coat, and Oscar screams on impulse, because no one does a reveal like Cel. “A family of three joined together in one body. More human than I am alone.” The lights cut to black as Cel drops the lab coat, and they turn to face the crowd.

It’s in the trees. It’s coming…

The electric drum pounds in Oscar’s chest, the vivid heartbeat of The Bolthole, and Cel is suddenly bathed in coruscating light that ripples over the iridescent scales covering their body.

When I was a child, running in the night
Afraid of what might be
Hiding in the dark, hiding in the street
And of what was following me

“Oh my god.” Oscar’s heart clenches tight at the sound of Kate Bush’s voice, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, Cel, you can’t do this to me.”

The hounds of love are hunting
I’ve always been a coward
And I don’t know what’s good for me

Cel is doing something that’s making the crowd lose their mind, but Oscar can’t see through the tears blurring his vision. “I love this song!” he wails, furiously wiping his eyes with his arm. “I love Kate Bush!”

“Everyone loves Kate Bush,” Eldarion replies crisply. “Are you crying?”

“The show, it’s about the transformative power of love and anger, and Zolf is—he’s afraid of what might be.” Oscar reaches out to Cel, who pirouettes to the edge of the stage and squeezes his hand. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him. I’m good for him!” Oscar bursts into tears. “I’m good for him, I know I’m good for him!” 

Eldarion pulls Oscar into her arms. “Get a hold of yourself.”  

“I love him,” Oscar sobs against her shoulder. “I don’t know how to stop loving him.”

“Well,” Marie says carefully, “have you considered—”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Oscar snaps, glaring at Marie reproachfully. “This is all your fault, you know.”

“Alright, alright,” Marie sighs. She snatches the cup out of his hand, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. “But I’m cutting you off. You’re getting maudlin.”

Oscar turns towards the stage, linking arms with Eldarion and Marie. “Oh, here I go,” he sings, his voice breaking on the words. “Don’t let me go! Hold me down! It’s coming for me through the trees.”

Eldarion sighs dramatically, but a little smile plays at the corner of her lips as she joins in. “Oh, help me, darling, help me please.”

“Take my shoes off and throw them in the lake!” the audience roars. 

Cel kicks over their head, and one of their heels flies offstage. “And I’ll be two steps on the water.”

Zolf would love you, Oscar thinks, beaming up at Cel through his tears. How could he not?

“Ohhh, Persuasion!” Azu says, clapping her hands. “I love Persuasion!”

Zolf sets the book aside and goes to ladle seolleongtang into a bowl for Azu. There’s something about reading a brilliant new book that always makes Zolf want to cook something that takes hours and hours of simmering, coaxing the deepest, most vibrant flavours from the simplest ingredients. And seolleongtang just felt so right for Jane Austen’s elegant writing—rich and silky and nourishing, yet light and clean, accompanied by the piquant bite of kimchi and warm, filling rice. “It’s really great.”

“Isn’t it?” Azu sighs, accepting the bowl of seolleongtang from Zolf. “It’s my favourite Austen novel.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s about second chances.” Azu helps herself to a heaping serving of kimchi. “And Anne is just…I find her very moving, as a heroine. She feels so real. I think Austen captures really beautifully the ways that age wears away our self-esteem, and how learning to see yourself through the eyes of someone who loves you can teach you how to love yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s a nice take.” Zolf fiddles with the pages, itching to continue reading. Oscar is a prolific annotator, and with Oscar’s bright, incisive commentary running in the margins, Zolf can imagine Oscar reading alongside him, prattling on and on and on about everything he loves about the novel as he curls against Zolf’s shoulder. “You really root for her.”

“Some people deserve second chances,” Azu says lightly. “Speaking of, I heard you decided to give a certain Commander James Barnes a chance.”

“God, he was a commander?” Zolf rolls his eyes. “Well. He seems alright, in spite of all that.”

“He’s Freddie’s boy.” Freddie was a librarian with close-cropped hair and sharp eyes who came into Coriander every day to purchase cakes for the various book clubs that met at the library. Zolf should have known they were related; James had his mother’s eyes, and her accent. “He’s come to Wynsbury to look after her.”

Zolf frowns, alarmed. “What’s happened to Freddie? Is she ill?”

“Well, the official story is that her osteoporosis is starting to hinder her mobility,” Azu says. “But I think she might be exaggerating a bit to give James a reason to feel useful, and so she can keep an eye on him after…have you heard what happened?”

“Erm.” Zolf idly rubs at the skin beneath his collarbone. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“You should talk to him.” Azu takes Zolf’s wrist and gently tugs his hand away from his chest. “I’d really like for you to talk to him. I know Freddie would, too.”

“Alright.” Zolf squeezes Azu’s hand before letting go. “I’ll do what I can.” 

After the show, Oscar, Marie, and Eldarion pile into Cel’s dressing room, and Cel squeals with delight. “Oscar, buddy, birthday boy!” They drag him into their arms and kiss his cheek, leaving a smudge of purple lipstick. “Oh, I’m so pleased you came tonight! I gotta be honest, I was a little worried about performing ‘Call the Doctor,’ cuz it’s not exactly a crowd pleaser, even though it totally should be! But then I was like, what the hell, it fits with the number, and I’m already doing a Lady Gaga song, the crowd can forgive me for mixing in something a little different. But whatever the case may be, your reaction was so worth it!”  

“Hello, Cel,” Marie says brightly. “Oscar’s in love, but we’re not talking about it.”

“Oh my god, you’re in love?” Cel holds Oscar at arms length and peers down at him, their eyes as wide as their extravagant eyelashes will allow. “Since when? Is this the barista? Or the baker?” 

“They’re the same person, and we’re not talking about it,” Oscar replies firmly. “You were brilliant, my darling.” 

They crowd onto a saggy sofa while Cel de-drags, gossiping and reminiscing and teasing one another until Marie starts to yawn, leaning against Eldarion’s shoulder. 

“Let’s get you home,” Eldarion murmurs, wrapping her arm around Marie’s waist and hauling her to her feet.

Marie smiles sleepily up at Eldarion and nods. They say their goodbyes, and as they leave, Oscar overhears Marie whisper to Eldarion, “You look beautiful tonight.”

Oscar slumps against the sofa and shuts his eyes. So simple, so lovely, so easy, the quiet joy of having someone to take you home. “I just.” Oscar clears his throat. “Cel, I think I might need to get going, too.”

On his way home, Oscar stops by a Tesco and buys a little jar of coriander. He pops the lid off as he walks back to his flat and breathes in, and it’s…disappointing. If the scent of Zolf’s coriander was the bright, verdant green of a lush meadow, then Tesco’s coriander is the waxy green of a child’s crayon. But the scent is still so terribly familiar, kindling memories of calloused fingertips tracing the divots of his spine, Zolf’s lips at his collarbone, the warm light in his soft green eyes.  

I know what to do with you. Back at his flat, Oscar pulls his notebook into his lap and takes up his pen. I will finish this novel if it bloody well kills me.

Chapter Text

When James shows up at 7:30 the following morning, Zolf forces himself to smile as he lets him into Coriander. “You’re half an hour early,” Zolf says, his voice ringing falsely bright in the drizzly morning air. 

“If it’s any bother, I can take a walk and come back at eight.” James’s gaze is steady and clear, but Zolf can see the heavy shadows framing his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. 

“S’alright,” Zolf sighs, waving James inside. “Just, take a seat behind the till and stay out of my way for a minute.”

James nods and silently follows Zolf behind the counter. Zolf heads back into the kitchen to take care of the croissants, and when he returns to the front of the café, James is studying the till intently. “Do you have a copy of the menu?” James asks without looking up. “I’ll need to memorise the prices.” 

“Ah. Well. Drink prices are listed on the chalkboard, along with the special, but baked goods are all individually priced, and I’ve got them listed out in a spreadsheet, but that’s on my computer, and, erm—” Zolf looks around for a piece of paper and a pen. “Hold on, I can write them down for you for today, just let me—”

James frowns at the till and presses the button to release the cash drawer, then starts shuffling through the bits and bobs that inevitably pile up in any till. As James reaches for a pencil, the brilliant blue enamel of Oscar’s pen glints in the light, and Zolf’s chest tightens with anger. How bloody typical, this arrogant naval officer swaggering into Zolf’s café and pawing through his till and acting like he owns the place, ten minutes after starting his first day of work. “Actually, it looks as though there’s a pen here if you’d—”

Zolf shoves James out of the way and slams the cash drawer shut. “Don’t touch that pen!” 

The lines around James’s lips deepen as curiosity sparks in his brown eyes, and he steps back from the till, hands raised in surrender. “I won’t.” 

“Sorry, I’m not—” Zolf sighs heavily. “Look, I should warn you,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his apron,  “I’m not always the easiest person to be around.” 

James nods, his eyes crinkling warmly. “I’ll keep that in mind. I apologise if I overstepped.” 

Zolf laughs awkwardly and shakes his head. “No, I mean, it’ll be your job to work the register, so it’s not—here, let me show you how to take an order.”

James is a remarkably quick study, with an annoying habit of figuring out what to do next before Zolf can even begin his explanation. “Right,” Zolf grumbles as James flawlessly executes a hypothetical order and hands him the receipt. “So you’ve got it, then?”

James straightens and begins rattling off every step of the process in meticulous, excruciating detail. When he’s finished, he looks to Zolf for approval, and Zolf barks out a laugh. “At ease, sailor.” 

James leans against the counter, looking sheepish. “Sorry.”

“Not a problem, just—” Zolf waves a hand dismissively “—it’s a café, not a battleship. No one’s gonna die if you mess up an order.” A shadow crosses James’s face, and Zolf grimaces as he realises what he’s just said. “Christ, sorry—”

“It’s fine.” James shrugs. “I know what you meant.”

“No, really, James, I’m—”

“Zolf,” James cuts in, his voice tired but firm. “It’s fine.”

Zolf nods and snaps his mouth shut, then goes to the door and flips the sign to “Open.” He sits at one of the tables, and the silence stretches on while James looks out the window, his back ramrod-straight. Zolf worries at the loose hem on his apron until the fabric frays between his fingers, wishing fervently that Azu were here to fill the silence and cursing her for putting him in this position in the first place.

After what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Zolf leaps to his feet. “Oh, thank—here, I can—or maybe you should—just, erm. Morning, Amelia!” Zolf chirps at the gnome, a regular he’s served for years who manages a restaurant down the road. “How are you?”

Amelia stops in her tracks and narrows her eyes. “Fine,” she says warily. “Why are you being weird? And why aren’t you behind the counter”

“I’m just—” Zolf gestures toward the till. “This is James. He’ll ring you up.”

“Hello, James,” Amelia says, drawing out his name. She smiles appreciatively, her eyes lingering over his broad shoulders. “How nice to see a new face in the off season.” 

Zolf crosses behind James and works the espresso machine as James rings Amelia up for her usual double espresso and croissant. Over the whirr and buzz of the machine, Zolf overhears Amelia say, “Don’t let Zolf scare you off. He’s pretty much harmless once you get to know him, and lord knows he could use an extra pair of hands around this place. I mean, it’s not a real restaurant, but even so—” 

“Oi, I heard that!” Zolf calls out. He mock-glowers at Amelia as he hands over her order; she beams back.

“There’s my favourite grumpy barista,” Amelia teases. She smiles slyly at James. “I’ve been trying to lure Zolf over to our kitchen for years, but if I can’t have him, maybe someday I can steal you.” 

James’s smile is almost wooden. “Maybe.”  

Amelia quirks an eyebrow and glances at Zolf, who shrugs apologetically. His loss, he mouths, and Amelia grins. “Well, I have to run, but it was good to meet you. Zolf, we’re starting to design our summer menu, so I should be by later this week to update our bread order.” 

“Great, see you then. Oh, hold on!” Zolf darts back to the fridge and retrieves a jar of kimchi for Amelia, stuffing it into a paper sack. “I think it’s perfect, so you’ll think it needs another two to three weeks to get properly ripe.” 

Amelia’s face lights up as she accepts the sack. “God, you always make me wait.” She leans in and murmurs under her breath, “Who needs men when you have kimchi?”

Zolf laughs. “No arguments here.”

Another customer arrives as Amelia leaves, saving Zolf from blowing another conversation with James, and the next few hours pass quickly as they serve the morning crowd. Zolf has to admit, it’s terrific having someone competent manning the till. He’s hired seasonal workers to help with the summer crowds before, but managing flustered teenagers and bored uni students has always ended up feeling like more trouble than it’s worth. James is calm and precise and polite, if a bit stiff, and as they fall into a smooth rhythm of taking and filling orders, Zolf realises they haven’t talked for hours. They haven’t needed to, and their silence feels, against all odds, easy and familiar, as though they’ve been working together for years. 

But as the morning rush slows, Zolf forces himself to try again with James as he begins preparing fried rice for lunch. “So, erm, how’re you liking Wynsbury?” Zolf asks, tossing diced onions and bacon into a pot. 

“It’s nice. Quiet.” James perches on a stool, watching Zolf cook. “How long have you lived here?”

“God, thirteen years now.” Zolf shakes his head in disbelief as he roughly chops a pile of kimchi. “Wow, that’s…longer than I realised.”

James frowns and peers at Zolf’s face. “What makes you say that?”

“Before I came to Wynsbury, I had this, erm, person. She was my, I don’t know.” Zolf sighs. He never knows whether to call Bosz his friend or his partner. Both are true on some level, but people never understand who she was to Zolf, not really, and it’s exhausting, feeling like he has to justify his grief. “Life partner? Best friend? Something like that.” 

James hums in recognition. “Your matelot.”

“Sorry?”

“Your matelot. You know, during the age of sail, pirates had this concept of matelotage, like a civil union for mates.” James shrugs. “Some of the relationships were romantic, but a lot of them weren’t.”

“Huh. Yeah.” Something clicks into place in Zolf’s chest. My matelot. “Her name was Bosz. Bosz Zara.” Zolf tugs down the neck of his jumper to reveal the rough BZ tattooed beneath his collarbone. “We were together for twelve years.” 

James turns away, his lips tight. “Did you ever find the body?”

“No.” Zolf swallows hard as he tosses the kimchi into the pot. So many years gone, longer than he had Bosz by his side, and it still hurts to know he’ll never find her. “I tell myself it’s where she’d want to be buried. The sea was the love of her life.”

James stands and rests a hand on Zolf’s shoulder. Zolf brings the kimchi to a simmer, then stirs in the rice, the hiss of sizzling food filling the heavy silence. Grief swells and crests in Zolf’s throat, a vast, relentless weight slamming against his chest, roaring in his ears. He inhales slowly, clinging to the rich, sharp scent of kimchi and toasted rice stained vermillion with gochugaru, a vivid reminder that you’re here, you’re alive, you need to keep living.

When James finally speaks, his voice is worn and frayed as an old rope. “I hate saying he was lost at sea. Like someday I’ll find him again, if only I look hard enough, and I—” his voice breaks, and he takes a slow, ragged breath, his hand slipping off Zolf’s shoulder. “I can’t let him go, I don’t know how to let him go.”

Zolf dips a spoon into the pot to taste the rice and shuts his eyes, letting the vibrant, smoky heat bloom on his tongue, sharpen his mind. More sesame oil, and a little sugar. He adjusts the seasoning and offers James a spoonful of fried rice. “Try this.”

James accepts the spoon and takes a bite. His eyes widen as he chews and swallows, two rosy spots blossoming on his cheekbones from the heat. 

“Clears your head, doesn’t it?” Zolf says softly, and James nods.

Zolf switches off the stove and scoops fried rice into a bowl, then presses the bowl into James’s hands. “Kimchi fried rice was Bosz’s favourite food. I always make it the way she liked it—a little too spicy, a little too sweet.” Like you, Zolf used to say, and Bosz would groan and elbow his ribs, a secret little smile tucked into the corners of her lips. “It’s, erm…” Zolf scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand and laughs wetly. “Shit, sorry. I’ve never said this out loud. It’s how I keep her alive.” 

James sits down heavily, clutching the bowl, and nods, his eyes bright.

Zolf walks out from behind the counter, wiping his face on his sleeve. “I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to let him go. I never could. But you learn to live with it, because you have to keep living.” 

Or else who would remember how to make kimchi fried rice exactly to Bosz’s taste? Who would make all of Azu’s favourite pickles, or temper the heat in Sasha’s food? Who would cook Oscar’s pumpkin curry, make him eat with his hands to stop him from writing through his lunch?

You could, but you won’t, says a small, bitter voice. You will always remember how to cook for Oscar, but you were too much of a coward to ask him to stay, and now he’s gone. 

Zolf flips the sign to “Closed” and locks the front door. “Sorry. Not really feeling up to working anymore today. But you’re welcome to stay.” 

“Thank you.” James stares into his bowl and takes a bite of rice. “I’d like that.”

Zolf nods, his heart too full to speak, and goes to serve himself a bowl of fried rice.   

Two weeks after his birthday, Oscar wakes to the sound of someone trying to kick down his door. He leaps out of bed, sending his notebook flying across the room. “Jesus Christ!” The person slams into his door again, and Oscar stumbles through his flat, tripping over a pile of books. “I’m coming, calm down, I’m coming.”  

Oscar yanks open the door and glares down at Marie, who’s standing with a yoga mat slung over one shoulder and a pink smoothie in hand. “Hello, I’m here, I’m alive, I’m fine.”

“Oh good,” Marie says, passing a critical eye over Oscar’s wrinkled t-shirt and joggers. “You’re already dressed for yoga.”

“For goodness sake, is this an intervention?” Oscar shoves a hand through his hair and rolls his eyes. “As my agent, you should be aware that heartbreak has been exceptionally conducive to my creative process. Forcing me to shower and see the light of day may negatively impact my ability to finish my draft in a timely manner.” 

“Don’t be silly. You haven’t time for a shower. Yoga starts in twenty minutes. Go get your mat.” Marie holds up the smoothie. “You can drink this on the way over.”

Oscar groans and jogs towards the bathroom. “Just give me a minute,” he says over his shoulder. “I need to put on some pants.”

They walk to the yoga studio in silence as Oscar sulkily sips his delicious smoothie, savouring the fresh tang of strawberries and yoghurt after too many days of salty ready meals and greasy takeaway. He twists the jar in his hands and scowls at the ground. “I’m fine,” he says abruptly, 

Marie looks up at him, her expression unreadable. “I never said you weren’t.”

“It was heavily implied,” Oscar grits out, “when you showed up at my flat unannounced, tried to break down the door, and handed me the best smoothie I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.”

“Thank you.” Marie takes Oscar’s arm. “I made it myself.”

Oscar sighs but doesn’t pull away. “Marie, you know I’m fine.” 

Marie gently squeezes his elbow. “Of course you are, dear.” 

At the studio, Oscar flops down on his mat like a petulant teenager. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“I know,” Marie says sweetly. “I can scarcely wait.” 

Oscar moves stiffly through the initial vinyasas, trying to breathe through the tension radiating through his hips and up his spine. Marie smiles serenely as he stumbles out of a reverse warrior pose that makes his back shriek in terror. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers, moving smoothly into Warrior II with a flourish of her arms.

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Nice port de bras,” he hisses back. “Are you auditioning for Giselle this season?”

“I’d make a brilliant Myrtha, wouldn’t I?” Marie smirks. “You know, there’s always child’s pose, for those of us who can’t keep up.”

Oscar slides back into extended side angle, gritting his teeth as his thighs tremble. “Absolutely not.”

About halfway through the class, Oscar drops to the floor and curls into child’s pose, red-faced and defeated. The instructor comes by while the rest of the class practises sirsasana variations and kneels by Oscar’s huddled, broken body. “Can I help you find a better variation?” 

“No, thank you,” Oscar mumbles, pressing his burning face into the mat. “I think child’s pose is just about my speed today.”

“I meant for child’s pose.” The instructor’s voice is light with amusement. “If your body is willing, spread your knees to the width of the mat and reach forwards.”

“The body is willing, but the mind wants to go home and never get out of bed ever again,” Oscar mutters, eliciting a warm laugh. But he dutifully follows the instructor’s directions, and his breath hisses out of his lungs as searing tension rolls down his spine and away from his hips. 

“Good. This is extended child’s pose. It’ll open up your hips and lower back. Alright if I touch you?”

Fuck. Oscar’s chest flares painfully at the memory of Zolf’s voice, husky and dark in his ear, rough hands on his chest, his belly, his thighs, his…Oscar sets his jaw. “By all means.” 

The instructor sets a warm palm on Oscar’s back and gently guides his rib cage towards the mat. “Let your heart melt forward. Hold this pose as long as you need.”  

After the class ends, Oscar smiles politely as Marie introduces him to the instructor, a man with broad shoulders, high cheekbones, and golden brown skin named Martin or Max or Matt something. “Nice to meet you,” Oscar says stiffly. “Thanks for the, ah, guidance. I’m a bit out of practice.”

“No worries.” Martin/Max/Matt grins, his teeth flashing white against his dark beard. “I teach a restorative yoga class tomorrow evening that could help relieve some of the tension you’re carrying in your back. I’d love to see you there.”

Marie nudges Oscar’s arm as they leave the studio. “Just take him out to dinner,” she says. “You don’t have to sleep with him if you don’t want to. Or, I don’t know, sleep with him and skip dinner. Whatever gets you out of your flat.”

They walk past a planter filled with yellow tulips, and Oscar looks up at the clear blue sky, shielding his eyes with his hand. Was it really spring already? Where had the time gone? 

Four months since you first arrived in Wynsbury, three weeks since you returned to London. Long enough, more than long enough. Come on, Wilde, did you really expect Zolf to call? Go take a shower and dye your hair and fuck the hot yoga teacher and move on.

“Alright,” Oscar says, blinking the sun out of his eyes. “Maybe I will.” 

Back at his flat, Oscar flops on his bed and takes out his mobile to check the time. 1:26 p.m. He blinks at the screen until the white numbers fade to black and he’s left staring at his pathetic, heartbroken, greying doppelganger, then heaves a sigh and chucks his mobile aside. 

He really should ask what’s-his-name out.

Oscar recovers his mobile and looks up the name of the yoga studio, scrolling through the staff roster until he finds Mark Phan, a handsome, thirty-something instructor who teaches ashtanga and restorative yoga—including a class tomorrow at six. 

The aptly-named Mark. Oscar smirks at his pun and hauls himself out of bed. Let’s get to work. 

Oscar digs a dye kit out of his bathroom cabinet and frowns at his reflection. It’s more of his natural colour than he’s seen in nearly a decade, and his fair skin looks pallid and dull beside the heavy streaks of grey. But Oscar hadn’t minded spending a little less time faffing with his hair, not when Zolf would trail his fingers reverently over his roots, as though Oscar’s grey hair was some incomparable treasure that he couldn’t believe he’d had the good fortune to find.

Well, so much for that, Oscar thinks as he paints on the hair dye. Easy come, easy go. 

As the colour processes, Oscar makes himself a cup of instant coffee and sits down with his notebook, flipping to an open page. 

You’re too old to be keeping these ridiculous hours and treating your body like a rubbish bin. It’s starting to ruin your life. 

Need a routine. Find something that gets you out of bed at a reasonable hour every day. Yes, the intervention worked this morning, but that’s hardly a sustainable practice. 

Oscar’s stomach growls, and he grimaces as he takes a long drink of his acrid, gritty coffee.

Drink less coffee. Less coffee = less instant coffee and more sleep = good. Or at least buy a moka pot.

Cooking? Where to even start?

Once he’s finished his disgusting coffee, he takes a long shower to rinse out the dye from his hair and gather his thoughts. He needs to finish his first draft of Bad Sons today. For months now, the loose ends of Isaac and Shane’s lives have twisted endlessly in his mind, and he’s sick of living with this unfinished story burning beneath his skin, ravenous for his time and attention and energy. 

It doesn’t need to be pretty. Oscar dials up the heat and leans against the wall, letting the water cascade over his aching back. It just needs to be done. He’s always hated the ordeal of drafting a novel from the ground up, but Bad Sons has been brutally personal in a way that Lost Time never was. It’s also undeniably worse—or at least, less “literary.” Oscar can already imagine the reviews dismissing Bad Sons as self-indulgent and derivative and trite, the lurid psycho-analysis of any remotely autobiographical detail. But Oscar needs to write this story, this clumsy, almost-romance bildungsroman overflowing with passionate failure, because the raw edges of Bad Sons feel urgent and alive, knitting together memories of London and Dublin and Wynsbury, of work and art and pleasure, of love and sex and friendship. As long as he can exorcise this story from his mind, to hell with how well it’s received by anyone. Well, anyone except—

One step at a time. Oscar switches off the shower and towels off, admiring his freshly dyed hair. Finish Bad Sons today. Go to yoga tomorrow. Fuck Mark.

Zolf has to admit, it’s nice having James at Coriander, even if he’s mildly infuriating. When Zolf tries to teach him how to operate the espresso machine, James anticipates so many steps in the process that Zolf finally throws up his hands and says, “Look, mate, it seems like you know what you’re doing, so why don’t you go ahead and show me how it’s done?” 

James shoots Zolf a bemused look, then proceeds to pull a shot of espresso with a thick, tawny crema. “I watched you work,” James says, handing Zolf the shot. “You’re very systematic. I took notes.” 

Zolf grimaces as he sips the espresso—it’s perfect, but god, he hates coffee. “You took notes,” he repeats incredulously. James pulls a little notebook out of his pocket, and Zolf waves it away. “Jesus, don’t show me! I’ve absolutely no interest in your, I don’t know, reconnaissance report for Operation Barista.”

James laughs, and a buoyant warmth fills the space between them as the heavy angles of his face soften with his smile. “Fair enough.”

After James’s first week, Zolf decides to take a risk. “Would you maybe be interested in learning how to bake?” Zolf asks, once they’ve closed the café. “I could, erm, teach you. If you like.”

“Sure, I’d like that.” James’s eyes shine with interest, and he gives Zolf a rare smile, small but warm. “That’s—thank you for offering. I’d like that very much.” 

“Erm, great. Perfect. No problem,” Zolf says, oddly flustered by James’s gratitude. “I know you’re off the clock, but I could show you a few things now if you’re free. Not that you should feel obligated to stay.”

James gazes longingly at the kitchen. “I don’t want to keep you after hours.”

Zolf scoffs. “I mean, I’ve got absolutely fuck-all planned for tonight.” Or any night. He heads towards the kitchen and gestures for James to follow. “Come on. Let’s make your mum a lemon drizzle cake.” 

It turns out James is a natural baker, which doesn’t surprise Zolf in the slightest—James is nothing if not patient and meticulous, and he clearly relishes a challenge. But as nightly baking lessons become a part of their routine at Coriander, James comes to life in the kitchen, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement as he memorises recipes and masters skills. Zolf finds himself looking forward to these evenings with James, that buoyant warmth flowing between them as James relaxes his shoulders, his smile growing brighter and easier every day. 

They still sit in companionable silence for much of the workday, but as they wait for cakes to bake and bread to rise, they have rambling conversations about baking, books, and maritime history, which James seems to love nearly as much as Zolf loves Harrison Campbell. But James doesn’t bring up Alexi after that first day, and while Zolf will occasionally talk about Bosz and Feryn, he never mentions Oscar. And despite having more time than ever to read, Zolf can’t bring himself to finish Persuasion, can’t bear the thought of Oscar’s bright comments in the margins fading away after the final page. 

In retrospect, Zolf, of all people, should have remembered that grief roiled ceaselessly beneath the surface, surging with crushing, torrential force at the sight of her knitting, the scent of her favourite food, the countless memories that refused to fade away and threatened to drag him under. But it still comes as a surprise—one moment, James is rambling about sailing technology in ancient Egypt as Zolf shucks off his jumper, the sleeve of his t-shirt catching on his shoulder as he yanks it over his head. The next, James falls silent and steps closer, one hand outstretched. 

Warm, rough fingers tentatively brush Zolf’s arm, and Zolf looks up at James, frowning. “Is everything alright?”

James pulls up Zolf’s sleeve, sucking in a breath as he strokes his thumb over the compass rose tattooed on Zolf’s right shoulder. “Where did you get this?” 

“At Indigo Ink, in Portsmouth.” It was one of Zolf’s earliest tattoos, a simple, ready-made design he’d gotten at a studio near the docks shortly after joining the navy. 

“Incredible,” James whispers. He leans down and kisses the tattoo, his chapped lips rasping sweetly over Zolf’s skin, and Zolf’s mind grinds to a halt, his heart pounding in his throat. 

“James,” Zolf says hoarsely. This is wrong, everything about this is horribly, painfully, palpably wrong. But when James lifts his head to meet Zolf’s gaze, his eyes are the honeyed brown of firelight gleaming through a bottle of whiskey, and Zolf can’t bring himself to pull away. “What are you— ”

James cups Zolf’s jaw and kisses him, his calloused fingertips grazing Zolf’s throat. His touch is coarse and tentative and nothing like Oscar, and maybe that’s enough, maybe Zolf can drown his memories of Oscar in the arms of a different man, if only for tonight. So Zolf kisses James back, and as James moans into his mouth, Zolf feels the moment spinning out of his hands.

Zolf leads James to the back corner of Coriander and tugs James’s trousers down around his ankles before shoving him onto the sofa. James’s lips part softly as Zolf kneels between his thighs, his hand slipping under Zolf’s sleeve to caress the compass rose. “Zolf…”

Zolf takes James in his mouth before he can say another word, dragging his tongue over the underside of his cock until he’s pressed hard against Zolf’s palate. James gasps, and Zolf shuts his eyes and swallows him all the way down, tightening his throat in the way that makes Oscar swear and grip the back of Zolf’s head, pinning him to his crotch and fucking up into his mouth. But James’s hands are gentle on the sides of Zolf’s face, his hips still, his breathing uneven but quiet. 

There was nothing quiet about Oscar in bed. Oscar was lush and fierce as a rushing river beneath Zolf’s body, moaning and thrashing in Zolf’s arms as he arched closer, clutched tighter, begged Zolf to fuck me harder, please, love, I want to feel you tomorrow, make me feel you. 

Zolf groans and fumbles blindly with his jeans, taking himself in hand as he sucks James’s cock. Oscar fucked like nothing Zolf had ever known, his raw, shameless desire blazing under Zolf’s hands like he burned for Zolf and Zolf alone. Even during that first kiss in Coriander, Zolf had basked in the heat radiating off Oscar’s skin, the tension simmering along the sinuous lines of his body. Tell me what you want, Zolf had asked, and the answer was never in question, not with Oscar gazing up at him with wide, dark eyes, his face flushed and frantic and lovely, his cock straining against Zolf’s thigh.

You, Oscar gasped. Zolf comes hard, groaning around James’s cock as he remembers kissing Oscar, how Oscar had shivered in his arms and melted against him, his hands fisted tight in Zolf’s jumper. 

James grunts softly, his fingers twitching in Zolf’s hair. “Zolf, I’m gonna—”

So get on with it. Zolf growls and presses closer, wrapping his hand around the base of James’s cock and jerking him with quick strokes as he sucks James down. James hisses out his breath, his hips snapping forward as he spills down Zolf’s throat.

Zolf sits back on his haunches and drags his arm across his mouth, his chest heaving. They stare at each other for a long, uneasy moment, until James finally pulls up his trousers, his face carefully neutral.

Zolf looks away, shame flooding his stomach, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.” 

“Christ.” James drags his hands over his face and flops back onto the sofa. “Sorry, that was…erm, not bad, but—”

“Stupid.” Zolf hauls himself to his feet and zips up his jeans. “Unbelievably stupid.”  

James laughs weakly and lets his hands fall from his face. “Do you want me to go?”

“No, it’s not—this wasn’t your fault.” James arches an eyebrow, and Zolf huffs a laugh. “Well, not entirely your fault. We should—let me, er—I’m gonna go get cleaned up, and then, erm, I guess we should talk.” He starts walking toward the kitchen, then hesitates. “Can I, erm, can I get you anything?”

James shrugs. “Have you got any whiskey?”

Zolf offers an apologetic smile. “No, but I’ve got beer.”

James smiles back. “That’ll work.”

When Zolf returns with two bottles of ale, James accepts the beer and takes a long swig. “Cheers.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m not gonna sack you.” Zolf sips his ale, then gestures between them with the bottle. “But, erm, just to be clear. That should never happen ever again under any circumstances. Do you hear me?” 

James presses a hand over his eyes and nods. “Absolutely.”

“I won’t blame you if you want to quit.” Zolf leans back against the sofa and regards James carefully. “I could put in a good word for you with Amelia. She runs a tight ship, but it’s a great kitchen.” 

“I don’t want to quit.” James turns to Zolf, his face grave and sincere. “I love this job, and I owe you an apology.”

Zolf smiles and shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”

“It’s not an excuse, but…” James drops his gaze to Zolf’s shoulder, his eyes bright and faraway. “Your compass rose tattoo. Alexi had the same tattoo, here—” he reaches up and touches the back of his neck, under his collar “—and I used to…” He trails off and shrugs, idly twisting his beer bottle between his hands. “Nevermind.”

“You can talk about him,” Zolf says, softening his voice. “I don’t mind.”

“I used to kiss him there. When he fell asleep in my arms, or when he did the washing up, or when I’d come up behind him on the ship and no one else was around.” James takes a deep breath and stares at his lap. “And then it became a kind of—you know, sailors are superstitious, like. So whenever he left on assignment, I’d kiss his compass rose and think to myself, Find your way back to me.” He swigs his ale. “I didn’t, erm. I didn’t have a chance to do that before he died.”

Zolf hums, knowing better than to speak. James drops his head against the back of the sofa and stares at the ceiling for a moment, then turns to look at Zolf. “Alright, your turn.” 

“Sorry?” Zolf asks, a little taken aback.  

“What’s on your mind?” James cocks his head, searching Zolf’s face. “You went somewhere, when we…you know.”

Zolf raises his eyebrows. “When I sucked you off, and you came in my mouth?”

James reddens and laughs. “Yes, that.”  

“There was this…” Zolf sighs and presses the cool bottle against his temple. “Oscar. His name was—is—Oscar. He came to Wynsbury on holiday to write a novel, and we were, erm, together for a bit. But then he fucked off to London about a month ago. So, erm, that’s it.” 

James frowns. “He left you?”

“Well, I mean, not like—he didn’t—” Zolf groans in frustration. “Look, it doesn’t matter. He left.”  

James’s frown deepens. “Not sure I follow.”

“It’s not complicated,” Zolf says, anger tightening his voice. “Oscar needed to be in London. He needs the city, and his nonstop work, and his posh friends, and his society parties. Wynsbury would never have been enough for him.”

The frown disappears from James’s brow, and he shoots Zolf a bemused look. “I don’t suppose he ever said that, did he?”

Zolf presses his lips together. “He didn’t need to.”

“Wynsbury’s enough for you. It’s enough for my mum. It’s enough for Azu, and Sasha, and Amelia, and everyone else who comes to Coriander, looking for coffee and croissants and their favourite grumpy barista.” James shrugs. “It’s enough for me, now that I’ve got a job in your café. Who’s to say Wynsbury wouldn’t be enough for Oscar?”

“You don’t know him like I do, and I know it’s not enough for him!” The words echo through the empty cafe, and Zolf belatedly realises he’s shouting, his hands clenched tight around his bottle of ale. 

James regards Zolf with an infuriating combination of concern and mild amusement until Zolf turns away, his ears burning. “You know, I reckon that’s a choice he ought to make for himself,” James says evenly.

Zolf rubs his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “Sorry. It’s been a weird day.” 

James grins. “You’re telling me.” The timer beeps from the kitchen, and James stands and cracks his knuckles. “What d’you reckon for the challah? Eight-strand plaited loaf, or Chelsea buns?”

Oscar sips his tea as the printer spits out the final chapter of his manuscript, the heady rush of success fizzing through his veins. He shouldn’t feel so pleased with himself—it’s just a first draft, and all of the most important work lies ahead. But now Bad Sons is a story written in words on paper, not a terrifying jumble of emotions and memories and half-finished thoughts, and Oscar isn’t afraid of his novel anymore.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Oscar pulls out a manila envelope and addresses it to Zolf Smith, care of Coriander. I could never have done this without you, he thinks, slipping the manuscript inside. But it’s time to let you go. 

Oscar stops by the post office on his way to the yoga studio and ships the manuscript off to Wynsbury. As he steps out on the street, he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. A crisp breeze lifts the ends of his hair, carrying the fragrance of magnolia blossoms and wet pavement and smoke, all the grit and glamour of this extraordinary city, and Oscar lets himself fall in love with London again. 

The great love of my life. Oscar smiles at the woman in a marigold sari, the goth teenager, the elderly man walking his exquisitely coiffed toy poodle. You would never ask me to change.

Oscar makes it to Mark’s yoga class a few minutes late and rolls out his mat at the back, where he can act a fool without getting in anyone’s way. Oscar arches his back and faffs with his hair and pulls out all his silly, shameless tricks until Mark meets his gaze and smiles, soft and knowing, and Oscar knows he’s won. 

When the class ends, Mark walks over to Oscar. “Oscar, right?” He grins shyly, flicking his eyes over Oscar’s Siouxsie and the Banshees shirt. “I love Siouxsie and the Banshees.” 

They chat about music as Oscar rolls up his mat and Mark packs up his things. Mark has decent, if somewhat predictable, taste in music—mostly post-punk, some new wave—and they move into the hallway to continue the conversation as the next class starts filtering in. Oscar tells a story about the time he went to a Pretenders concert and watched Chrissie Hynde absolutely eviscerate some poor idiot who tried to take her picture, and Mark leans against Oscar’s shoulder as he laughs until he’s gasping for air.

“So do I have to wait until next week to see you again?” Oscar leans in close, trailing his fingertips along Mark’s forearm. “Or would you like to get dinner with me tonight?”

Mark blushes, a delicate, rosy glow that accentuates his high cheekbones. “Yeah, sure, that’d be—I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. I just need to shower, and—let me just—” He fumbles with his bag, colour washing over his neck, and pulls out his mobile. “What’s your number?”

Oscar meets Mark at a Bengali restaurant down the road from Mark’s flat in Shoreditch, and they split a lamb tikka biryani and an order of tarka daal. The food is phenomenal, rich and spicy and comforting, and Mark is lovely, a sweet, soft-spoken physical therapist who teaches yoga as a hobby. And it’s so easy, making Mark smile and laugh. He blushes at the drop of a hat, and Oscar teases him incessantly, merciless little compliments to his beard, his shoulders, his arms, his thighs, until he’s crimson-faced and laughing helplessly. 

“Stop it!” Mark gasps, kicking Oscar playfully under the table. “You’re being ridiculous!”

“No, I’m being honest!” Oscar reaches across the table to brush his thumb against Mark’s wrist. “And besides, hasn’t anyone ever told you how lovely you are when you blush?”

Mark ducks his head, his laughter turning a little giddy, and covers Oscar’s hand with his own. “Not really, no.”

See? I can be easy. Oscar takes Mark’s hand and strokes a slow line across his knuckles, grinning as Mark’s rosy flush spreads over his neck and chest. At least with the right person.

After dinner, Oscar walks Mark back to his flat, and Mark kisses him on the front steps, sliding his hand around the back of Oscar’s neck to tug him closer. Oscar moans as Mark’s beard scratches his cheeks, and for a moment he’s kissing someone shorter and older and heavier, with faded tattoos swirling over his warm, freckled skin. Oscar’s fingers remember the shape of the compass rose on Zolf’s shoulder, the trident lining his forearm, the rope knotted around his wrist, the kraken grasping his hip and coiling over his arse. But Zolf’s body was plush and velvety, with a soft roll of fat around his hips that fit perfectly in Oscar’s hands, and Mark’s skin is too smooth, his belly too taut, his body all wrong in Oscar’s arms. 

Oscar blinks his eyes open and pulls back, his throat perilously tight, and Mark smiles at him. “Do you want to come up?” he whispers.

“Erm—” yes, of course you do, Zolf is never going to call you “—well, er, I suppose—” why would he, when you’re more trouble than you’re worth “—that would be—” so go upstairs and let Mark fuck you, because you can be easy, you’ve always been easy “—I suppose I could—” it’s what you’re best at, it’s all you’re good for, an easy, forgettable fuck “—sorry, I’m feeling a little, erm—”

“Is everything alright?” Mark asks, frowning.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean—” Oscar shakes his head, then blurts out, “I just turned forty-four on Saturday.”

“Oh.” Mark blinks at him. “That’s…erm…happy birthday.”

“Thank you, I don’t, erm—sorry—I just—my mother—” Jesus fucking Christ, shut up, SHUT UP, Mark doesn’t want to hear this, Zolf didn’t want to hear this, no one wants to hear this, just shut up and let him take you upstairs, that’s all he wants from you “—my mother was forty-four when I left home, and I was kind of hoping someone would call me last week.”

Mark’s frown deepens, and he rests a hand on Oscar’s arm. “Your mum?”

“Oh my god, no, absolutely not, I hate my mother.” The words spill out of Oscar’s mouth in a wild tumble. “I haven’t spoken to her in over twenty years. The last time I called, she told me I’d never be anything more than a cheap whore if I didn’t come home, and I told her I’d rather be a cheap whore than a washed-up, alcoholic housewife. It was all very mature, but then again, I was eighteen, so—” Oscar laughs, brittle and shrill. “Wow, sorry, I really don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

“Oscar, I—”

“Look, I think I’m just going to go. I’m so sorry to do this to you, you’re really lovely, and tonight was—it was nice, it was really, really nice. But I sort of have this boyfriend—well, I had this boyfriend, and—god, that does sound a bit ridiculous when you say it out loud, doesn’t it? ‘Boyfriend.’ Or maybe it’s just the idea of me with a boyfriend that’s ridiculous. Jesus Christ, sorry, I really need to go.” Oscar starts backing away and flaps an awkward little wave, and Mark stares back at him, his eyes wide and concerned. “I’ll, erm, I’ll drop you a line. Actually, you know what, I feel like I should be honest with you right now. I’m probably never going to talk to you ever again. But, erm…god, Mark, I’m just—I’m really, really sorry.”

Oscar spins on his heel and jogs down the street, his face burning. He turns down a random street, then another, and another, until he finds himself in an empty alley. He crouches beside a rubbish bin, pulls out his mobile, and texts Carter.

back in london

You left London?

ive been gone since january

Wow. I had no idea. You should’ve said something.

i did say something

the week before i left

Can’t recall.

i fucked you over the kitchen table

we ordered thai food

Right, you had that writer’s retreat.

something like that

That Thai place was well good. 

anyways

ive had a bit of a day

thought i might pop over tonight

Brilliant, come whenever.

Oscar rolls off Carter, wincing at the sharp twinge in his back. He must be getting old if he’s throwing out his back just from fucking Carter for the two minutes it takes to get him off. 

“Cheers.” Carter scoops a flannel off the floor and wipes himself down. “Good to have you back in town.”

“It’s good to be back.” Oscar peels off the condom, tying it off as he hobbles toward the bathroom. “For the love of god, please tell me you have ibuprofen.”

“Should be around somewhere.” Carter sits up against the headboard and digs his cigarette case out of his bedside table. “Cigarette?”

“Do you really need to ask?” Oscar chucks the condom in the bin and washes his hands. “I’ve had an absolute nightmare of a week.”

From the bedroom, Oscar hears the silvery clink of Carter’s lighter as he lights a cigarette. “Want to talk about it?” 

“Sure, why not?” Oscar picks through the bottles and jars piled around the sink until he finds some paracetamol. Good enough. “I sort of fell in love with someone.”

“Sort of?” The spicy scent of Carter’s tobacco blend rolls through the air, and Oscar remembers the first cigarette they shared, draped across a mattress on the sticky wood floor of Carter’s first flat, research notes for Carter’s dissertation littered around them. Carter lived closer to the university than Oscar, and he finished quickly and shared his cigarettes afterwards, and nearly two decades later Oscar is still coming back to Bloomsbury for a mediocre lay and an exceptional smoke. 

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Oscar gulps down the pills with a handful of water from the sink and pulls a face. Even with grey hair and wrinkles and a rubbish back.  

Oscar leans against the doorframe of the bathroom, flashing Carter a self-deprecating smile. “I fell in love with a baker from Herefordshire who worships Judy Garland and Harrison Campbell. He makes a perfect cortado and the most extraordinary croissants, and as I fell in love with him, I gained a stone in two months, stopped dyeing my hair, and fell in love with writing all over again.”

Carter blows a plume of smoke over the tangled sheets. “How was the dick?”

“Darling, the dick was transcendent.” Oscar drops onto the bed with an extravagant sigh. “You know, for a moment I truly believed I might leave London to live with my baker by the sea, but it’s over now. Time to get on with it.”

“Well, I for one am glad you’ll be staying on in London,” Carter says, passing the cigarette. “The city wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Oscar takes a long drag, his lungs burning in protest. He lets his head fall back against the headboard on the exhale and studies the muddy water stain blooming over Carter’s bed. Oscar had helped Carter paint over the stain when he moved into the flat seven years ago—or rather, had lounged naked in an armchair with a glass of Chianti, rambling about the themes of Lost Time and offering unsolicited critiques of Carter’s work. Whatever repairs to the leak have since worn away, and over the years Oscar has smoked far too many cigarettes in Carter’s bed and watched the stain spread across half the ceiling. “You really should get that looked at, you know.”

Carter lights a new cigarette for himself and pillows his head on his arm as he squints up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t bother me much.” 

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you when the gentleman upstairs crashes through your ceiling whilst having a bath.” Oscar takes another drag and frowns at the cigarette, the smoke heavy and harsh in his mouth. “Do you ever wonder if we’re getting too old for this?”

“Dunno about that.” Carter flicks his cigarette over a dusty wine glass, and the ashes cling to the sticky burgundy dregs at the bottom of the bowl. “Reckon life’s too short to worry about getting old.”

Oscar turns to face Carter, pulling the sheet up around his chest. “Life will be a lot shorter if you keep this up, you know.”

Carter peers at Oscar’s face with the intensity of a concerned puppy, his clear blue eyes wide and sincere, and Oscar feels a rush of fondness for his ridiculous friend. “Alright, Oscar?”

“I will be.” Oscar smiles softly and nudges Carter’s shoulder with his own. “I always am.” 

Carter lifts his cigarette to his lips. “God, I’m starved. Want to order takeaway?”

“Actually, I had another idea.” Oscar leans over the edge of the bed and pulls a carton of eggs out of his bag with a flourish. “How would you feel about an omelette?” 

That night, after James leaves, Zolf takes Persuasion over to Oscar’s table and takes a seat, flipping it open. 

“But I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady? My own self. Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?”

“Would I!” was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.

“Good God!” he cried, “you would! It is not that I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I was proud, too proud to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice. This is a recollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than myself. Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared. It is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me. I have been used to the gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I enjoyed. I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards. Like other great men under reverses,” he added, with a smile. “I must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve.”

Z—when will you learn? Oscar had written in the margins. Would you let me teach you? 

Zolf’s chest constricts painfully as he touches Oscar’s handwriting. It’s so like him, so excessively beautiful and whimsical and singular, that Zolf can hear the music of Oscar’s voice in the extravagant swashes and fluid strokes of the letters, can feel Oscar’s lips curve against his cheek in the voluptuous arc of the question mark.

Zolf, my darling, when will you learn? Oscar says, his voice sparkling with his smile. Would you let me teach you? Or are you too proud to ask again? 

Zolf shuts his eyes, but nothing will drown his memories of Oscar kneeling before him, his gentle, reverent touch as he took Zolf’s hand in both of his own. Just say the word and I’ll stay.

“I can’t let you go,” Zolf whispers, the truth of the words settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. 

Who says you have to let me go?

Zolf tucks Persuasion under his arm and goes through the motions of closing up Coriander. Before he heads up to his flat, he checks the post, frowning as he wrestles a bulky manila envelope out of Coriander’s post box. “What on earth—” 

Persuasion tumbles to the floor as Zolf recognizes the flamboyant handwriting swirling across the package. 

Zolf Smith
c/o Coriander

Zolf sits heavily on the stair, the package gripped tight in his hands. He runs his fingers over Oscar’s name and address in the upper corner, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush as he realises with absolute, overwhelming certainty what he needs to do. 

“Fuck.” He stumbles back into Coriander and dials James’s number. 

James answers after the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Zolf gasps. “This is Zolf.”

“Hey. Everything alright?”

“Erm, sort of.” Zolf leans against the counter to steady himself. “Could you open Coriander without me tomorrow? Just, erm, for coffee. No food. Wynsbury can survive without croissants for a day.”

“Sure, I can do that,” James says, concern creeping into his voice. “Zolf, what’s going on?”

“I’m fine, really, it’s just—” Zolf takes a deep breath and touches Oscar’s address. “Something’s come up, and I need to go to London.”

Chapter Text

MIND THE GAP.

The warning blares across the crowded platform in Paddington Station, and Zolf shoulders his way through the sea of tourists. He collapses into a seat just as the train lurches forward, clutching his bag in his lap to protect the love cake stashed inside. 

It’s been years since Zolf has been in London, and he’s forgotten how much he hates the stench and ceaseless roar of the city. Why on earth would anyone want to live here? He shuts his eyes as the grinding rumble of the tube grates in his ears, reverberates in his bones. All he needs to do is survive this train ride, this final indignity in a month of seemingly endless indignities, and find Oscar’s flat. Then he can talk to Oscar and say—

MIND THE GAP.

What, exactly? What could Oscar possibly want to hear?

Hey, I know I didn’t call you for a month, but here’s a love cake and your pen back. 

What did you mean, to “learn to brook being happier than I deserve?” How would you teach me? 

I hired someone at the café, and last night I sucked him off, thinking of you.

To be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. 

MIND THE GAP.

Zolf blinks his eyes open, wincing at the harsh fluorescent light. Across the train, a man in a sleek black motorcycle jacket smirks at Zolf, sweeping his auburn curls away from his face.  

Jesus fucking Christ. Zolf digs his mobile out of his pocket and opens Google Maps, studying the route for the hundredth time that day. Come on, just one more stop. Zolf frowns at the blue marker creeping ever closer to its destination, willing it to move faster. For the love of god, please let me get through this trip without some pushy arsehole trying it on with me—

Zolf swears under his breath as the man stands and crosses the aisle. “Hi,” the man says with a smile. He grabs the bar overhead and leans over Zolf. “Love the beard.”

“For goodness sake,” Zolf grumbles. He shoulders his bag and hauls himself out of his seat, ducking under the man’s arm. 

MIND THE GAP.

Zolf fusses with his mobile as he shuffles toward the door. Please, just leave me alone. As the doors slide open, a woman shoves past, slamming her suitcase into the back of Zolf’s leg. Zolf stumbles forward, pulling the bag into his chest to protect the cake. As he flings his other arm out wide to regain his balance, his mobile slips out of his grasp, and Zolf watches with horror as it clatters down the gap. 

“Shit!” The doors begin sliding shut, and Zolf dashes out onto the platform. Even above the noise of the platform, he hears the dull, metallic crunch as the train pulls away from the station, and he stares blankly at the silver blur of the cars rushing past. 

Well. Zolf blinks down at the splintered remains of his mobile glittering on the tracks. At least now there’s a reason not to call ahead. 

Fortunately, Zolf had spent so much time memorising the route to Oscar’s flat that he’s able to find the building relatively easily. He catches the door as someone else leaves and starts trudging up the staircase, because of course there’s no lift. 

After three flights of stairs, Zolf finds himself standing in front of Oscar’s flat. He takes a deep breath, takes the cake box out of his bag, and knocks on the door before he can lose his nerve. 

No answer. 

“Come on, come on, come on,” Zolf mumbles. He knocks again and again, clenching his jaw against the idea of bashing the door in with his head. When it’s unavoidably clear that no one’s home, he slumps back over to the stairs and flops onto the top step. What a day. He takes a long drink from his water bottle, glaring at the manuscript of Bad Sons peeking out of his bag. Well, he’s put it off reading the end for long enough, and god knows how long it’ll be before Oscar gets back. He yanks out Bad Sons, flipping to the last chapter.  

After Shane ate his omelette, we went to my room. “I’ve lost the plot,” Shane declared, flopping down on my bed. “I can’t stop thinking about my mum.”

I raised an eyebrow as I lay beside him. “Your mum?”

“My client had a mum. You have a mum. I have a mum. Even if you’ve never met, everyone has a mum.” Shane stretched his arms over his head. “What does that mean?” 

“It means you’re high.” I grabbed his arm, stroking my thumb down his inner wrist. “You don’t have a palmaris longus.”

“A what?”

“A palmaris longus. Make a fist.” I held my arm against Shane’s and clenched my fist to flex my tendons. His arm was long and lean compared to mine, his pale skin smooth beside the dusky hair lining my forearm. “See how I have two cords here?”

“Sure.” 

“You’ve only got one.” 

Shane tilted his wrist back and forth. “Is that…what does that mean?” 

“The palmaris longus is pretty useless, unless you rupture another tendon in your wrist and your surgeon needs a spare tendon to graft it back together.” I shrugged. “But in general, it’s not a big deal if you don’t have one. It’s a fairly common genetic variation.”

“It’s genetic?” I nodded, and Shane slipped his arm through mine. “Well. Maybe that’s why I have a mum, then.”

I nudged Shane’s side with my elbow. “We can talk about your mum if you want.” 

“I don’t want to,” Shane groaned, pressing his face into my shoulder. “It’s not even about her. Well, not really.”

“Talk to me.” I kissed Shane’s neck. “You can trust me. I’m a doctor.” 

“God, you’re impossible.” Shane sighed. “You know, it was my mum’s idea for me to audition for a proper conservatory. I was so sure I wouldn’t get in, but my mum… When I got the call from the Academy, she was so proud of me. I’ll never forget, she took my face in her hands and said—” Shane slipped into a haughty Irish accent “—‘You are so much better than you think you are.’”

“That’s lovely,” I said carefully.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Shane’s mouth tightened into a hard slash. “I just remember feeling… surprised. Not even excited. Maybe even disappointed. I mean, I know exactly how good I am as a pianist, and I’m…I’m fine.”

“What are you talking about?” I laughed incredulously. “You’re a brilliant pianist.” 

Shane kissed my shoulder. “Darling, you’re very sweet, but I was raised by a brilliant pianist, and believe me, I am nowhere near as good as my mother. And that’s…I don’t know. I’m a fine pianist. Good enough to get into the Academy, I suppose, and I could find work as an accompanist, even now. But that’s not…” Resolve hardened his face, tightened his grip on my arm. “I’m not a bloody accompanist.”

“I don’t know shite about music.” I smoothed away the lines creasing Shane’s brow, and he melted into my touch. “But I know you’d be wasted as an accompanist.”

“God.” Shane’s face crumpled against my palm. “I want… god.”

“No you don’t.” I pulled Shane into my arms, tucking him under my chin. “Religion is horribly overrated.” 

A short burst of laughter flickered against my neck, gentle and weary. “Maybe you’re my religion,” Shane murmured into my skin. 

That breathtaking ache bloomed in my chest, throbbing to the ceaseless rhythm of maybe, maybe, maybe. “Maybe you’re high,” I said hoarsely.

“It’s just…it’s all mixed up. You, my client, my mum. Drag Shane, boy Shane. Work, life. Me.” Shane made a low, guttural noise, halfway between a muffled sob and a stifled laugh. “Where do I begin and end?” 

“You’re allowed to have a quarter-life crisis. In fact, I highly recommend it. Doctor’s orders.”

Shane laughed again, but this time it was a proper laugh, warm and sweet. “I thought dropping out was my quarter-life crisis.” 

“Have another. The prescription’s as needed.” I kissed the top of his head. “Can I ask where I fit into all of this?”

Shane was quiet for a long moment. “There’s a line in Cabaret. ‘Divine decadence, darling.’ That’s what I aspire to. And when I met you…” I felt him smile against my throat, then the vibrant thrill of his voice as he began to sing. “Dear, when you smiled at me, I heard a melody, it haunted me from the start…”  

“You’re mixing your metaphors,” I said breathlessly. “Liza Minelli’s in Cabaret, not Judy Garland.”

“It’s all connected.” Shane crawled over me, sheltering me with his body. “Judy was Liza’s mum. Your favourite musical is Cabaret. And you said I sing like Judy Garland. Do you remember?”   

I blinked up at him, overwhelmed by the memory of his performance, and I realised that Cabaret really had become my favourite musical somewhere along the way. Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky, maybe this time he’ll stay… “Of course.”

“What I’m trying to say is—I never wrote a song until I met you. Just piano sonatas, and one truly awful concerto.” Shane frowned. “But I heard something different with you. Something simple and lovely, a melody I could hum under my breath as I thought about the beautiful barman who looked at me like…like…”  

Shane’s curls grazed my cheeks as he kissed me, long and lingering, as though he was searching for the answer on my lips. He hummed into the kiss, a bright, sweeping phrase that tugged insistently at my chest, made me shiver in his arms. “Like divine decadence, maybe,” Shane whispered. 

I rolled Shane onto his side and kissed him. “Shane.” I brushed my thumb over his lips, and my voice slipped into a deeper register. I’ll believe anything you say when you talk like that, he’d said. Your doctor’s voice. “You set the world on fire when you sing.”

Shane’s pupils were blown wide, and he was looking at me as though my opinion mattered more than anything in the world. “Do you really think I sing like Judy Garland?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Shane twisted the back of my shirt in his hands. “What does that mean to you?” 

“Judy was…she was Judy.” I stroked Shane’s hair until I found the right words in the depths of his eyes. “She sang for people.”

“She sang for people,” Shane repeated slowly, then nodded. “That’s why I left the Academy. Because ‘I’m self-centred, inconsiderate, and what was the third adjective?’” He bolted upright, his eyes suddenly bright and keen. “‘Oh, yes. And I have this infantile fantasy that someday I’ll amount to something…’” 

I sat up, enthralled by the fragile hope lighting his face. “‘...as an actress?’” I offered, completing Sally’s line.

“Just. Something. Anything. I haven’t found my way just yet. But to get there, I need my life to belong to me, and me alone.” Shane snaked his arm around my waist, pulling me into his lap. “You understand.” 

My breath caught in my chest as I wound my arms around his neck. “Yes.”

“You’ve always understood.” The darkness of Shane’s gaze tightened my throat. “I wish I knew why.”

I swallowed down the unease trembling in the pit of my stomach. “Not sure I follow.”

Shane held the silence for a breathless moment, his fingers spreading to fill the hollows of my ribs. “You’re carrying something with you.”

“You’re running from something,” I replied, as calmly as I could, but my voice hardened with a desperate, bitter edge.  

“I’m running from my mother’s legacy.” Shane spoke these words as easily as he said my name, an effortless revelation that bore the weight of a lifetime of lies. “Tell me what you’re carrying with you.” 

I shook my head. “Tonight’s not about me.”

“Isn’t it?” Shane kissed me, and I swayed forward, weak with the maybe, maybe, maybe pounding relentlessly in my chest. “Talk to me, Isaac. You can trust me. I’m a drag queen.”

I rested my head in the curve of Shane’s shoulder, giving him the full weight of my body. Because Shane was a drag queen, and a rent boy mourning the death of his client, and he understood what it was like to be afraid. “I think my parents only call me by my name because they never cared about losing their daughter.”

“Isaac,” Shane whispered, fierce and reverent. My ribs ached beneath the whipcord strength of his arms, and I wished he would hold me tighter. “Isaac, you’re a good son.”

“No, I’m not.” A good son would give up his life for his parents; a good son wouldn’t need to change his name. A good son would never have the courage to love Shane MacKenna. “I’m not.”

“You can be a bad son, if that’s what you want.” Shane tangled a hand in my hair, his fingers twisting tight. “You can be anything, Isaac, anything at all.”

“I believe you.” I buried my face into his neck, breathed in the sweet scent of his skin. “I’ll believe anything you say, when you say my name.”

Shane laid me down on the bed and pressed his lips to my forehead. “Isaac, you are enough.” Cool hands slipped under my shirt, caressing the scars across my chest. “You have always been enough.” He kissed my temple, my jaw, the hollow of my throat. “Isaac, my darling, you are so deserving of love.”

“Jesus, Shane.” Soft fingertips soothed over my cheeks, and I realised my face was wet. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, laughing weakly. “Go easy on me tonight.”

“Isaac…” Shane’s voice cracked open on my name, and he shook his head. “What am I meant to do with you?”

“Anything you want.” I reached down and undid the button of his jeans. “Anything at all.”

Shane rolled out of the bed and switched off the lamp. Fabric whispered over his skin as he undressed, and the honeyed glow of streetlights filtered through the blinds, streaking across the sinuous lines of his body. 

I held his gaze while I removed my shirt, then my joggers, then my pants. It was easier to undress in the dark; it still is. But I never minded being naked with Shane, who always looked at my body with such unflinching desire. My legs spread open as I sat on the edge of the bed, and Shane drew in a shaky breath.

“I can’t believe you.” Shane knelt at my feet, smoothing his hands up my thighs as the hazy lights of London smouldered in his eyes. “I just…Isaac, I can’t believe you.”

“You have to know.” I leaned down and touched his cheek. “You have to know I’m in love with you, you have to know.”

“I know, I know.” Shane stroked my arms, drawing me closer. “But I can’t love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

My hand fell from his face. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know, love.” Shane pressed our foreheads together. “You know I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Right.” My heart broke in that aching, familiar place, and I turned away, unable to face him. “Okay.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” I shook my head, and Shane’s lips brushed my jaw. “Talk to me, Isaac. Tell me what you want.”

I wanted to kiss Shane, fall asleep with him, hold him in my arms until morning. I wanted to cook him breakfast, make him laugh, listen to him sing while we did the washing-up. Please, I wanted to beg. Please, I believed you when you said I was enough. Let me be enough for you.

But I knew Shane. I knew him, like he knew me. And I knew he’d be gone in the morning, but he was here now, and beneath his gaze I could be anything, anything at all.

I took a deep breath and lay back on the bed. “I want you to go down on me.”

Warm lips trailed over my stomach, cool hands curled around my hips. “Is that all you want?”

Shane’s hair was thick and sleek under my fingers as I guided him between my legs. “Yeah.”

Shane moaned as his lips closed around me, and his voice resonated through my body, rich and thrilling. My mind settled around the gentle glide of his tongue, and I let Shane take this from me, too, his mouth stoking the desperate, sticky ache beneath my skin until I couldn’t bear it any longer. He dug his fingers into my hips as I came in his mouth, pulled me closer to grind against him, didn’t let go until I slumped back on the bed, my chest heaving. 

Shane draped himself around me, and I curled into his chest. “Isaac,” he whispered. “Isaac, I’ll say the words if you want me to. I’ll say anything you need to hear.”

“You don’t need to say anything, love.” I couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop breathing him in. “It’s alright. I know.”

Shane smiled at me, soft and sincere, and for a moment that smile made me believe I was the only boy in the entire world, that I’d never have to let him go. I felt my heart trying vainly to knit itself back together again, and I shut my eyes. “I don’t know if I can see you after tonight.”

Shane let out his breath in a broken rush. “Alright. I—ok.” He pressed his lips to my temple. “Do you want me to go?”

“No.” I clung to Shane’s neck. “Don’t let me go, don’t you dare let me go.”

“I won’t.” Shane kissed me, his hands strong and sure on the small of my back. “I’ve got you.” 

Just for tonight. But that night I held Shane in my arms, and for a brief, brilliant moment he was mine.

---

I quit Other London the following day. But I couldn’t afford to lose my job at Gragg’s, so I still had to watch Shane perform every week. 

For the most part, he left me alone, and I kept my head down behind the bar. But about a month after we ended things, Shane came up to the bar while I was cleaning up after the show. He perched on a barstool and sat there quietly, just watching me mop the floor.

After a full minute of silence, I looked up. “Alright, Shane?” I asked, focusing my gaze on a point over his shoulder.

Shane studied me for a few seconds longer, his eyes impossibly dark, before setting a flash drive on the bar. “I finished writing my song, and I’m going to start singing it in the show.” 

I took the flash drive and slipped it into my pocket. “It’s still about us, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Shane said quietly. “I’m not asking you for permission. It was my experience, too. But I wanted you to hear it first.” 

I nodded and went back to mopping the floor. “I’m glad you’re performing your own music.”

“Me too.” Shane stood up, then hesitated. “Will you tell me what you think?”

I sighed and leaned on my mop, finally meeting his gaze. “I don’t know, Shane. Probably not, to be honest.”

A shadow flickered across Shane’s face. “Fair enough. Well.” He hoisted his bag over his shoulder and walked towards the exit. “I’ll see you around.”

I listened to his song when I got back to my flat. It was just Shane’s voice and the piano, probably recorded in one take with a cheap microphone. But the rough audio of his soaring, gorgeous voice made the recording feel raw and intimate, as though Shane was singing just for me.

     You’re too good for me, you know
     I never learned to take it slow
     I’m not ashamed being your mistake,
     But it’s time to let you go

     You want for us to rise above
     As though we’re meant to fall in love
     You act surprised when I can’t see
     How love could ever be enough

     If I tell you that I love you, will you tell me how you feel?
     Just because we know it’s over doesn’t mean it isn’t real

     Good boys, bad sons, false hope, true love
     I’ll take all of the above, but I won’t ever call you mine
     Hard truth, soft touch, hot night, cold blood
     You were in the right place at the wrong time, the wrong time.

    You should know it’s nothing new
    And there’s nothing you could do
     I don’t know how to be sorry 
    That I never needed you

     And this is not what you deserve
     But, my god, when will you learn
     That I’m never getting better
     No, I’m only getting worse

     If I tell you that I love you, will you tell me how you feel?
     Just because we know it’s over doesn’t mean it isn’t real

     Good boys, bad sons, false hope, true love
     I’ll take all of the above, but I won’t ever call you mine
     Hard truth, soft touch, hot night, cold blood
     You were in the right place at the wrong time, the wrong time.

     Of all the boys I loved you best
     But you can’t force me to regret
     The filthy choices that I’ve made
     I never asked for your respect

     It’s hard to breathe this city air
     That whispers that I never cared
     Come on, my love, it’s getting late
     These streets will take you anywhere

     If I tell you that I love you, will you tell me how you feel?
     Just because we know it’s over doesn’t mean it isn’t real

     Good boys, bad sons, false hope, true love
     I’ll take all of the above, but I won’t ever call you mine
     Hard truth, soft touch, hot night, cold blood
     You were in the right place at the wrong time, the wrong time.
     You were in the right place at the wrong time, the wrong time.

I listened to the song over and over and over, allowing Shane to rekindle that fragile, exquisite ache, born in the shadows of a slippery London summer and fractured beneath the weight of my hope and his desire. I listened until the night faded into morning, when Shane sang alongside cooing pigeons and honking cabs, the chorus of a waking city.

Once I’d memorised every word, I took out my mobile. I stared at the screen for a long time, knowing I didn’t owe Shane a damn thing but wanting to text him all the same. What would I even say? Shane knew his song was brilliant. He’d always known just how brilliant he was. 

Tell me how you feel. Shane’s voice rang in my ears, plaintive and devastating. Tell me, tell me, tell me.  

No. I locked the screen and tossed my phone to the foot of the bed, then played his song one final time. Let me keep this, for once. As I lay back and closed my eyes, a breeze swept through my open window, carrying the stench and ceaseless roar of the city below. London seemed less beautiful now than it once did, but no less miraculous—a teeming, filthy mass of hunger and passion and yearning that whispered empty promises in my ear like a prayer. 

In a moment I would stand and shut the window, leave my room and walk down the hall of my flat. I’d knock on Tia’s door, and she’d pull me into her arms. Cat would come out and stiffly pat my back as I cried into Tia’s shoulder, and then I’d wipe my face and cook us breakfast. 

But first, I let Shane sing to me, only me. I let myself hate him a little and love him more with every breath. And as the stale city air clung to my skin and caught in my throat, London whispered the memory of Shane’s lips against mine and promised to give me all that I deserved.

Zolf turns the page and looks away, unwilling to face the blank sheet of paper heralding the end of the story. “Jesus, Oscar,” he mumbles, his voice thick. 

Oscar never promised you a happy ending. This isn’t a romance, and you knew how it would end. But Zolf fell for these characters and their fragile, exquisite love, and he’s lived through far too many unhappy endings of his own to let them vanish into the void, like Bosz slipping beneath the waves, Feryn buried underground, Oscar leaving Zolf for London.

It doesn’t need to end like this. Zolf had glimpsed another story hidden between the lines, flowing from the junction of memory and fiction, truth and desire, and that story burns beneath his skin, a seething, ravenous ache that makes Zolf fumble for Oscar’s pen. I won’t allow it to end like this. 

Zolf looks down at the endsheet of the manuscript, the blank page suddenly rife with possibility, and uncaps Oscar’s pen.

Oscar sashays down the sidewalk, turning his face to the sunlight as he tosses his hair to the beat of the song blaring through his headphones. “Be tormented by me, babe,” he sings along with Carly Rae Jepson. “Wonder, wonder how I do. How’s the weather, am I better, better now that there’s no you?” 

A woman smiles at Oscar as she jogs past, and he beams back. “Drink tequila for me, babe, let it hit you cold and hot. Let your feelings be revealing that you can’t forget me—”

A family leaving a restaurant gapes at Oscar, and a little girl in a frothy white dress grips her mother’s hand. “Is that a boy or a girl?” she mouths, her voice swallowed by the music. 

“Not a flower on the wall. I am growing ten feet, ten feet tall—” Oscar bobs a curtsey to the girl, and her mother clutches her closer “—in your head, and I won’t stop, until you forget me, get me not.”

Oscar pirouettes into a car park overflowing with racks of clothes and tables laden with curios and trinkets. Cel’s hair flashes above the crowd of shoppers in bronze spikes streaked with silver, and Oscar runs to them, arms outstretched. “In your fantasy, dream about me! And all that we could do with this emotion!”

Cel catches his hand and spins him around, laughing. “Fantasy, dream about me,” they sing along. “And all that we could do with this emotion!”

A flawlessly manicured hand reaches out and tugs Oscar’s headphones out of his ears. “For goodness sake, have a little self respect.” Eldarion purses her lips reproachfully, but her eyes twinkle with laughter. “What’s gotten into you?”

Oscar grins at Eldarion and Marie, leaning against Cel to catch his breath. “We have had a vision!”

“A vision,” Marie repeats, arching an eyebrow. “Did this vision involve a certain yoga instructor?”

Oscar laughs, pressing a hand over his eyes. “No, absolutely not.” He gestures at the car boot sale. “Shall we?”

Cel slings an arm around his shoulder as they start wandering through the car park. “Would this vision maybe have something to do with a certain baker-slash-barista fellow that we’re not talking about?”

“His name is Zolf, and I was in love with him, and we can talk about it.” Oscar squeezes Cel’s hand. “And no, it’s not exactly about him, either. I’ve decided that it’s time for me to ‘open myself to the gentle indifference of the world.’”

Eldarion pauses at a table heaped with silk scarves. “‘I felt I had been happy and that I was happy again,’” she quips back, picking through the scarves. “‘For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone—’”

“Oh, come on!” Oscar cries. “Existentialism is supposed to be my thing! You don’t even like Camus!” 

“‘—I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.’” Eldarion selects an emerald scarf printed with birds of paradise and smirks at Oscar. “So we’re reading The Stranger now? We really are having a midlife crisis, aren’t we?”

“What tipped you off?” Marie holds back her hair as Eldarion ties the scarf around her neck. “Was it when he fell in love with the first man he met on holiday, or when he wrote a novel about his misspent youth?”

“What about when I wept into your bosom in the middle of a drag show on my forty-fourth birthday?” Oscar looks up at Cel through his eyelashes. “By the way, did I tell you I’m writing a novel about our love child?”

“What! No! You never tell me anything!” Cel pulls Oscar in by the curve of his waist. “We have a love child? What’s their name?”

“Their name is Shane, and they’re a creative genius like you, and a filthy slag like me.” Oscar winds his arms around Cel’s neck. “Will you make an honest man out of me, my darling?” 

“Absolutely not!” Cel dips Oscar, and he throws his head back and laughs. “Is that gonna be the culmination of your midlife crisis? Getting married? Because look, as much as I love you, it sure as hell isn’t gonna be to me!”

“I’ll have you know that I’d make an excellent wife!” Cel hauls Oscar upright, and Oscar drags them over to a jewellery display. “Last night I cooked an omelette, and it got rave reviews.”

“From Mark?” Marie asks, setting the scarf aside. “Things went that well?”

My mother was forty-four when I left home, and I was kind of hoping someone would call me last week. Oscar shakes his head and straightens, forcing back the humiliation writhing in his stomach. “Not exactly. By the way, we need to find a new yoga studio.” He turns away from Marie’s shrewd gaze and picks up a pair of chandelier earrings dripping with teal crystals, holding them up to Cel’s ears. “These would look fabulous on you.”

Cel frowns, resting a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Hey.” They pull Oscar behind a rack of dresses, lowering their voice so only he can hear. “What’s on your mind?”

“Oh, too many things.” Oscar sighs and sets down the earrings. “I’ll tell you about Zolf, but please don’t make me talk about my mother. You already know how that story goes, and I’d really like to have a good day today.”

“Oh, buddy.” Cel pulls Oscar into their arms. “You know you’re allowed to be a little messed up, right? Or a lot messed up. It’s not gonna make me love you any less.” 

“I know.” A small bubble of joy swells in Oscar’s chest, because deep down he’s still that starstruck teenager who wanted nothing more than to lie beside Cel on a bare mattress, talking and listening to Sleater-Kinney until the break of dawn. I’ve been happy, and I’m happy again, and I’ll never be alone, because I’ll always have you. “I’m a little messed up, but I’m alright. More than alright. I promise.” 

“Good.” Cel kisses Oscar’s cheek. “So tell me about this Zolf guy.”

“Zolf hated absolutely everything about me.” Oscar sighs airily, linking his arm through Cel’s. “The way I talk, the way I do my hair, the way I dress. Absolutely everything.”

Cel squeezes Oscar’s arm. “Well, I for one love the way you talk, and the way you do your hair, and the way you dress.” 

“Of course you do.” Oscar smiles up at his stunning, brilliant, fearless friend. “You have excellent taste.” 

“Oh, oh my god, oh!” 

Cel hauls Oscar over to a table covered in accessories and snatches up a pair of round, brass-rimmed sunglasses. The rose gold lenses flash in the sunlight, and Oscar’s belly clenches tight with want. They’re ridiculous, but Oscar loves looking ridiculous, and now he has no reason to be anything but ridiculous and flashy and altogether too much.

“Oh my god,” Oscar breathes, reaching for the sunglasses. “They’re perfect.”

“What d’you think?” Cel holds the sunglasses playfully out of reach, their eyes glittering with mischief. “Would Zolf like these?” 

“God, no.” Oscar laughs, shaking his head. “They’re pink and sparkly and fabulous. Zolf would hate them!”  

“Perfect.” Cel slides the sunglasses onto Oscar’s face, suffusing the world in a warm, rosy glow. “Let’s put together a whole collection of fabulous stuff that Zolf would fucking hate.”

When the endpapers and half the margins in the manuscript are filled with Zolf’s cramped, wobbly script, the door to the building finally creaks open. 

“How can I put it? You put me on.” Oscar’s voice resonates through the stairway, punchy and bright. “I even fell for that stupid love song. Yeah, yeah, since you been gone.”

Zolf’s heart leaps into his throat as he caps Oscar’s pen, shoving it with the manuscript back into his bag. He stumbles to his feet, scrubbing his ink-stained hands on his coat. 

“How come I’d never hear you say, ‘I just wanna be with you’? Guess you never felt that way.”

Zolf leans over the edge of the bannister to see Oscar beaming behind a pair of mirrored pink sunglasses as he dances up the stairs, a bulging tote bag slung over his shoulder and a paper sack of groceries balanced on his hip. “Oscar?” 

“But since you been gone—” Oscar throws his head back as he belts out the chorus “—I can breathe for the first time! I’m so moving on, yeah, yeah! Thanks to you, now I get, I get what I want! Since you been gone.”   

“Oscar,” Zolf calls out, his voice echoing down the stairwell. “ Oscar!”

“You had your chance, you blew it. Out of sight, out of mind. Shut your mouth, I just can’t take it! Again, and again, and again, and—”

As Oscar rounds the third flight of stairs, he looks up and freezes, the song dying in his throat. Zolf’s vision sharpens around the fine lines framing Oscar’s lips, the dramatic arch of his cheekbones, the loose waves of his sable hair. Your hair. Zolf grips the bannister, his knees weak with longing. You dyed your hair.

Oscar tugs out his headphones, then slowly slips off the ridiculous sunglasses. Light refracts off the iridescent lenses, burnishing the fine angles of his face and illuminating his dark eyes. “Hello.”  

“Hey,” Zolf croaks. He clears his throat and brandishes the cake box. “Sorry, I, erm, I baked you a cake. It’s, er, it’s a love cake.”

Something flickers across Oscar’s face as he mounts the stairs, but when he reaches the landing it vanishes behind a cool smile. “Thank you.” Zolf’s palms burn as Oscar takes the box, leaning close enough for Zolf to catch a whiff of roses. “Is that why you’re here? To deliver a cake?”

“Oh! Also, er…” Zolf fumbles in his bag until he finds Oscar’s pen. “I brought this back for you.”

“Ah.” Oscar balances the cake on his bag of groceries and plucks the pen out of Zolf’s grasp, his movements crisp and businesslike. He adjusts the bag on his hip, then turns to unlock the door to his flat. “Well. Would you like to come inside? I suppose the least I can do is make you a drink, after you’ve travelled all this way.”

“Yeah, alright, that’d be—thanks.” Zolf shuffles in behind Oscar. “I’d like that.”  

Oscar’s flat looks exactly like him—a vibrant, meticulously curated chaos of colour and beauty and books. A peacock blue velvet sofa lies at the foot of a bed covered in a bundled nest of mauve blankets and aubergine sheets. Books and glittering tchotchkes line the walls, alongside a handful of stark black-and-white photographs and bold paintings. More books are piled on a marble end table, their pages adorned with brightly coloured tabs, alongside a massive jumble of notebooks. Jammed into a corner is a desk, every inch of its surface covered in handwritten notes neatly collated around Oscar’s laptop. 

Oscar kicks off his shoes and strides over to his pathetic excuse for a kitchen, setting the cake box beside a two-burner stove. “What would you like?” He opens a minifridge and starts putting away his groceries. “I have red wine, vodka, and scotch. And tea and water, of course.” 

Zolf unlaces his boots, feeling like he showed up to an exclusive salon in his ratty oilskin coat. “I could go for scotch.”

As Oscar pours their drinks, Zolf hovers by the bed. His eyes fall on a photograph of a naked woman sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, the hollows of her ribs stark against her pale skin. She reminds him unnervingly of Oscar, but younger and hungrier, more defiant—how Zolf imagines Shane looked in the hall outside Isaac’s flat. 

Oscar hands Zolf a tumbler of scotch, then perches on the edge of his desk, idly swirling his own drink as he stares at the ceiling. “Never have I ever…travelled clear across the country just to deliver a cake and return a pen.”  

Zolf stares at his drink. “That’s not why I’m here.” 

“Oh?” Oscar lifts his glass. “Then by all means, enlighten me.”

“I, er…” Zolf takes a sip, and the scotch burns down his throat. “I came to see if you wanted to, I dunno. Maybe come back to Wynsbury sometime?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I live about three hours by train away from Wynsbury.” Oscar glances at Zolf over the rim of his glass as he takes a slow, deliberate sip. “And I’ll have you know that I’ve never been especially fond of dreary little seaside towns.”

“Oh, come off it, Oscar.” Annoyance pricks down Zolf’s spine, bracing and familiar. “I read the end of Bad Sons. I know you’re tired of London.” 

Oscar presses his lips together and looks away. “Don’t be absurd. ‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.’” 

Zolf grits his teeth and sets his drink down on the end table with a sharp click. “You don’t have to—”

“Zolf,” Oscar cuts in, his eyes distant as he twists his glass between his palms. “Why are you here?”

Zolf sighs and passes a hand over his face. “We had a good thing going, when you were in Wynsbury.”

“We had a good thing going,” Oscar repeats tonelessly. “Tell me, what was so good about what we had?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” Zolf throws up his hands. “It was good, alright? We had a good time together, and when you left, I—”

“When I left.” Oscar scoffs, shaking his head. “When I left?”

“Yes, when you left.”  

“I didn’t leave, Zolf,” Oscar shoots back, each word sharp and precise. “You kicked me out of your flat.”

Zolf takes a step back. “I know I said—I said what I said, and it was—I was out of line, alright? But I didn’t—I couldn’t stop thinking about you after you went back to London. And I read Bad Sons about a thousand times, and then I found your copy of Persuasion, and there were all these weird little cryptic notes that made me think, well, maybe you’d want to come back to Wynsbury someday.”

“Right.” Oscar drains his glass, then sets it delicately on his desk. “Well, maybe you thought wrong.”

“Oscar, just, talk to me honestly,” Zolf pleads. “Why are you—”

“You know what, Zolf, I’ll talk to you honestly when you talk to me honestly.” Oscar shoves himself away from his desk, and his face breaks open, sharpening with the savage force of his anger. “Tell me why you’re here.”

Zolf reels back, catching himself on the edge of the bed. “I told you, I thought you might want—”

“Don’t you dare come into my home and tell me what I want,” Oscar snarls, baring his teeth as he takes a step toward Zolf. “I know what I want. I’ve always known what I want, and it’s never the right answer, it’s never easy, but I know, I know, and—”

Oscar’s face slams shut like storm shutters braced against a hurricane, his fists clenched tight at his side. He takes a deep breath, then another. “Zolf,” he says at last, his voice lethally quiet. “Tell me why you’re here.” 

“I’m not—I’m just offering you a choice, Oscar." The heat of Oscar’s body blazes against Zolf’s skin, and Zolf clutches at the mattress, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. "You come back to Wynsbury with me, or you don’t. I know I was an arsehole, and you didn’t deserve—”

“I know what I deserve.” Oscar’s eyes soften, and he reaches out to cup Zolf’s cheek. “Give me a reason to come back to Wynsbury.”

Zolf’s breath catches in his throat. “Do you want there to be a reason?” 

Oscar shuts his eyes, his hand falling to grip Zolf’s shoulder. “What did I just say?” he hisses. “Obviously I do, yes!”

“Fine.” Zolf inhales slowly, and Oscar’s warm, floral scent fills his lungs, leaving his voice raw and ragged. “Because I need you, Oscar.”

Oscar sighs extravagantly, the rigid line of his shoulders easing with his breath. “And there we go.” He turns away, and Zolf claws his fingers into the mattress to stop himself from reaching out to pull Oscar back. “An honest answer from Zolf Smith. I never thought I’d hear it.”

Zolf’s cheeks burn with the memory of Oscar’s touch, and he shoves his hands into his coat pockets, shame twisting his gut. “Oh, you were just angling for that?” He sets his jaw, glaring up at Oscar. “You bastard!”

“Yes, I was ‘just angling for that,’ you absolute idiot!” Oscar groans and fists his hands in his hair. “In your flat, I literally said—I don’t understand why—I swear to god, I can’t stand you sometimes!”

Zolf blinks up at him, taken aback. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to say it because it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Oh, nothing’s fair! Look at me.” Oscar flings his arms out wide. “I’ve been a confirmed bachelor my entire life, and you know what? I liked living alone. I loved my independence. I live in London, in one of the greatest cities in the world, and I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, with whomever I want. But then I went on holiday to a dreary little seaside town in Somerset, and I somehow managed to fall in love with you, with you, this stubborn imbecile who didn’t even like me, and I started to think, well, maybe London isn’t enough for me anymore!”

Zolf’s breath stutters out. “You what?”

“I fell in love with you, and I don’t understand what I’m meant to do about that!” Oscar shakes his head and furiously scrubs the back of his neck. “Because I can tell you how I feel, I can beg you to ask me to stay, I can write an entire fucking novel inspired by you, by us, but no matter what I do, this has always been on your terms, hasn’t it? And I still don’t know what you want from me, and I’m tired, Zolf, I’m tired of bending over backwards trying to figure out what you want!” 

Zolf grabs the front of Oscar’s shirt and yanks him down to his level. “I want to be your boyfriend!” he shouts. “And I want you to move into my flat!” 

Oscar stares at Zolf, his eyes wide and bright. “Zolf...” His voice falters, and he drops to his knees, burying his face in Zolf’s neck. “I don’t…I can’t…”

“I want to work less so I can spend more time with you,” Zolf babbles on, terrified of what Oscar will say if he stops talking. “And I want to make you coffee and croissants and pumpkin curry and force you to eat lunch at a reasonable hour.”

Zolf feels a damp huff of laughter against his shoulder. “Anything else?”

“I want to listen to you prattle on and on and on about all of your endless opinions. And I—” Zolf gingerly cups Oscar’s neck “—I want to kiss you, and fall asleep with you, and cook you breakfast, all that stuff Isaac was going on about in the last chapter of Bad Sons. I want a life with you, Oscar, because I can’t imagine life without you anymore.”

Oscar sucks in a shuddering breath. “God, Zolf. Don’t do this to me.” 

Zolf’s heart drops into his stomach. “Do what?” 

“Don’t show up out of the blue, carrying a love cake and my favourite pen, and ask me to run away with you.” Oscar shakes his head, digging his fingers into Zolf’s shoulders. “Don’t look this good, don’t feel this good, don’t—just—I wish that you’d called.” He groans and slumps forward, his body limp in Zolf’s arms. “Why didn’t you call?”

Zolf clutches Oscar’s head against his neck, his other arm tight around Oscar’s waist. “I was—I didn’t know if—if you’d—” 

“I told you,” Oscar growls. “All you had to do was say the word, I fucking told you.”

“I know,” Zolf says, panic rising in his throat. “I’m just—I’m sorry, Oscar. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t just appear like this and expect me to, I don’t know.” Oscar sighs weakly. “Elope with you and live out my days as your devoted hausfrau.” 

“You’d make a terrible hausfrau.” Zolf strokes Oscar’s hair and down his back. “I know that, love. I know.”

Oscar laughs, soft and tremulous. “Yes, I suppose you’d know that better than anyone.” He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Zolf, don’t ask me to leave London. Not after…Please, you can’t ask that of me now.” 

“Alright.” Disappointment knots Zolf’s chest, brutally tight. “It’s—I mean, I—I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” Oscar pulls back, then sways forward, pressing his forehead against Zolf’s. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too.” Zolf tentatively caresses Oscar’s cheek. “Can I…is it alright if I…” 

Oscar captures Zolf’s wrist, turning into his touch. “If you what, my love?”

My love. Oscar’s lips are tender and sweet as a plum warmed by the summer sun as he whispers the words into Zolf’s palm, and Zolf burns for what might have been, if only he’d allowed himself to be happier than he deserved.

“K-kiss you,” Zolf chokes out. “Would it be alright if I kiss you?”

Oscar smiles, soft and sly, and slips his hands inside Zolf’s coat, sliding it off his shoulders until it pools around his feet. “Alright if I kiss you instead?” 

Zolf lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, alright.” Oscar’s fingers glide down Zolf’s chest and up his flank, soft and cool against his skin, and Zolf lifts his arms to allow Oscar to pull off his t-shirt. “Do you want—”

“Shhh, love,” Oscar murmurs against Zolf’s collarbone. “You know what I want.”

Zolf’s eyes drift closed as Oscar kisses over his heart. “Oscar…”

“Zolf.” Oscar skims his thumbs along Zolf’s waistband before unhooking the top button of his trousers, and Zolf fumbles to pull them off. The room twists into a blurry, desperate rush as Zolf hears the muted groan of denim as Oscar unzips his jeans, the whisper of his crisp cotton shirt falling to the floor, the sigh of bedsheets as he slips into bed. 

Oscar reaches out from the sea of blankets, and Zolf finds his hand and holds on tight. “Come here,” Oscar says, tugging him closer. 

Zolf crawls into Oscar’s bed, dizzy and overwhelmed. Oscar is here, warm and lovely and so much better than anything Zolf imagined when he lay awake, dreaming of brown eyes and creamy skin and sable hair shot with silver. But when he looks at Oscar sprawled naked and beautiful across the aubergine sheets, nothing stirs between Zolf’s legs, and dread pools in his stomach, heavy and cold. 

Not tonight , of all nights. Oscar presses against Zolf’s back, winding an arm around his chest, and Zolf closes his eyes, willing his body to respond to the sweet scent of Oscar’s skin, his gentle touch. Please, don’t do this tonight. 

“Lean back,” Oscar murmurs. Zolf tentatively leans into Oscar’s body, holding back the bulk of his weight. “What do you want?”

“You can, erm.” Zolf sets his jaw, swallowing down the anxious bile rising in his throat. “You can touch me.”

Oscar cards his fingers through Zolf’s hair, brushing a thumb over the shell of his ear. “Like this?”

God, yes. Zolf leans into the shivery pleasure of Oscar’s hands in his hair. “Or, you know. My, er…you can touch me anywhere you want.”

“I want to touch you where it feels good.” Oscar runs a hand over Zolf’s chest and belly, up and down his flank. “Does this feel good?”

“Yeah.” Zolf lets his head fall back against Oscar’s shoulder. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Oscar curls around Zolf and brushes his lips along the cords of Zolf’s neck. “And this?” 

“Uh-huh.” Zolf sucks in a ragged breath as Oscar’s tongue slides over his pulse. Please, I can get there, let me get there—

“Zolf.” Oscar’s voice resonates in Zolf’s throat, rich and sweet as wildflower honey. “Zolf, I need you to tell me what you want.”

Zolf wants Oscar to come home with him. He wants Oscar asleep in his bed, eating at his kitchen table, writing in view of the till in Coriander. He wants this, Oscar wrapped around him, the magic of his name on Oscar’s lips. He wants…

“Say my name again.”

Oscar’s hair caresses Zolf’s shoulders as he whispers in his ear, “Zolf, my love, I’ll say your name all night if that’s what you want.”

Desire flares in Zolf’s chest, fierce and bright, and he looks up at Oscar, drunk on the heady glow of his voice. “Kiss me.”

“Zolf.” Oscar sits up and gathers Zolf in his arms, cradling him against his chest as he presses his lips to Zolf’s forehead. “Zolf.” He kisses Zolf’s cheek, the hollow of his throat, along the curve of his collarbone. “Zolf.” Soft fingertips trace the kraken tattooed on Zolf’s hip as Oscar trails his lips over the compass rose on his shoulder, the trident lining his forearm, the rope knotted around his wrist. “Zolf.”

Zolf wraps his arms around Oscar’s neck and pulls himself upright, his skin singing with Oscar’s lingering touch. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” The light catches on the creases of Oscar’s teasing smile as he rests his thumb on Zolf’s lower lip. “When did you become so easy, Zolf Smith?”

Zolf Smith isn’t easy. He’s categorically difficult, a stubborn, bloody-minded ass who never knows what’s good for him. But he’s easy for Oscar, for this ridiculous, maddening, extraordinary man with gentle hands and a voice like magic and a smile that lights up his entire world, and he owes Oscar an honest answer, at the very least. “When I fell in love with you.”

Oscar’s mouth opens in soft surprise, his eyes widen, and for a moment he transforms into the man sprawled on the sofa in Coriander, legs spread wide on Zolf’s thigh and desperate for every touch. Such a stunning, extraordinary gift, Oscar’s bare desire, so infinitely precious and impossible to deserve, but Zolf will try, he needs to try. 

“Oscar,” Zolf says softly. “I’m in love with you.”

Oscar smiles, brilliant and warm as the sun rising over the ocean. “Are you really?”

Zolf reaches up and touches Oscar, strokes his knuckles along the curve of his smile. “Yes, really.”

Oscar drops his gaze and laughs, soft and breathless. “You’re in love with me,” he whispers, his lips brushing Zolf’s fingers.

“Kiss me.” Zolf straddles Oscar’s lap, enthralled by the wonder illuminating Oscar’s face, shimmering in his voice. “Please. I want you to kiss me.”

Oscar winds his arms around Zolf’s waist, his hands strong and steady on the small of Zolf’s back. “How do you want me to kiss you?”

“I—I don’t know,” Zolf stammers, clutching at Oscar’s neck. “Just—please, I want you to kiss me.”

Oscar brushes their lips together, slow and sweet and almost unbearably tender, his tongue tracing the seam of Zolf’s lips. “Like that?”

Zolf makes a noise low in his throat and nods, unable to speak.

Oscar kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, until Zolf sways forward, weak with the possibility that maybe he can have this, for once, maybe someone will finally stay. 

“Zolf, my love,” Oscar sighs, his hand sliding up Zolf’s spine to cradle the back of his neck. “Talk to me. You can tell me anything, anything at all. I swear, I won’t let you go.”

“I love you,” Zolf whispers, his voice cracked and worn as old leather. “I love you, and it’s…You don’t know what it’s like, loving you. You’re so much, Oscar, you’re everything, and I can’t—I feel like I can’t hold on to you. Like I can’t hold you tight enough, I can’t hold you close enough, and it’s—it’s too much, love. I don’t know where it’s all supposed to go, the way I feel about you. I just—I don’t know how I—” Zolf’s voice breaks, and he takes Oscar’s face in his hands. “How could I ever be enough for you?”

“Zolf.” Oscar presses their foreheads together, his hand in Zolf’s hair. “You’re enough for me, you’ve always been enough for me.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears burn down Zolf’s cheeks, the scent of roses and cardamom tightening his throat. “I love you, and I’m sorry if it’s too late, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not too late.” Oscar pulls Zolf against his neck, wrapping his arm possessively around Zolf’s waist. “Don’t go back to Wynsbury. Spend the week in London with me.”

Zolf rests his head in the curve of Oscar’s shoulder, giving Oscar the full weight of his body, and it feels…like Dorothy stepping into Oz, leaving a safe, sepia life for a world painted in vivid Technicolor. It’s brilliant and beautiful and wondrously strange, and Zolf knows he can’t go back to Wynsbury anymore, not without Oscar by his side. 

“Of course,” Zolf says, because there’s no other answer—he’ll stay the week, the month, the year, however long Oscar will have him. “Of course I’ll stay, of course. I want to—please, I want to make this work. I’ll do whatever it takes, just, please, let me try.” 

“Zolf, look at me.” Oscar cups Zolf’s jaw, tipping his chin up to meet his gaze. Oscar’s face is soft and sincere, and he looks older in the fading light, with the evening shadows pooling in the crow’s feet framing his eyes, the lines etched around his lips. He looks like years of laughter in the kitchen, raucous arguments in the sitting room, quiet nights reading in bed. He looks breathtakingly beautiful. “We’ve got this.”

“Don’t say that, Oscar.” Zolf manages a wry smile as he wipes his eyes on his shoulder. “I might start to believe it.”

Oscar chucks Zolf under the chin. “Believe me when I say that you deserve to look after this ageing, burnt-out writer infinitely more than Norman ever deserved Esther.”

“Well, you’re no Judy Garland.” Zolf kisses Oscar’s forehead. You’re better. You’re mine. “You mad bastard.”

“God, I just really wish that you’d called.” Oscar sighs, dropping his head against Zolf’s shoulder. “My flat’s not accessible, you twat. I need to get a shower seat, and a step stool, and god only knows what else, because you haven’t told me anything!”

“I don’t—” Zolf stops himself from saying he doesn’t need anything, because he can’t shower safely without a shower seat, and he can’t cook Oscar dinner without a step stool to reach the stove, and he can do this, he can learn how to be honest with the man he loves. “Do you have a bathtub?”

“Yes.” Oscar pulls back to look at Zolf, his lovely face creased with concern. “Is that alright? I know it’s getting late, but if we take a cab, we can probably get to Argos before they close, and—”

“Oscar, it’s fine.” Zolf smooths away the creases lining Oscar’s brow with his thumb. “I can take a bath tonight. And we can—we can order takeaway, or something. Whatever you want.”  

“Whatever I want?” Oscar’s eyes flash, bright and mischievous, and oh, Zolf loves him, he’ll never stop loving him. “How would you feel about spaghetti?”

Chapter Text

Isaac works at a hospital in central London and passes hundreds of people on his commute every morning. But nothing could ever prepare him to see Shane lounging outside a café across from the hospital, wearing a trenchcoat and looking at his phone.

Isaac stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “Shane?” he blurts out.

Shane looks up and his mouth falls open. “Isaac?”

It’s been twenty years since they last saw each other, but Isaac has certainly heard about Shane since then. He’s built up quite the reputation as a cabaret performer, and besides, Cat would never abandon one of her friends.

Isaac shakes his head and laughs incredulously. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to meet Cat for coffee.” A look of realisation dawns on Shane’s face, and he throws back his head and laughs. “God, I should’ve known this was a set-up. She never asks to meet in this part of town.”

“Uhm. Sorry?”

“Never mind.” Shane flashes a wide, brilliant smile that creases the fine lines framing his eyes. Isaac's breath catches in his throat as he reads the history of the last two decades etched into Shane's face—twenty years of laughter, of music, of joy. “It’s just—it’s just good to be in the right place at the right time, for once. Can I buy you breakfast?”

Isaac shrugs. “Yeah, alright.”

Shane orders a cortado and a croissant for himself, and a green tea and a scone for Isaac. All the tables are taken, so they settle on the couch at the back of the cafe.

“It’s so good to see you,” Shane says earnestly.

“Yeah, you too.” Isaac rests his elbow against the back of the sofa and takes him in, still in disbelief. “You look incredible.”

Shane flushes delightfully pink and lowers his gaze. “So do you. I, uhm…” He takes a long sip of his cortado, then sets it down carefully. “Can I be honest with you?”

Isaac frowns at him. “Course you can.”

“I’m…” Shane takes a deep breath. “I’m putting together a retrospective show to celebrate twenty years of drag, and as I was going over my song catalogue, I realised that I’ve written dozens of songs about you over the years. I just—I was just telling Cat the other day, I look back at my body of work, and all I can see is you, this unfinished story that began one slippery summer night at a drag bar in Soho. You’re the man that got away, in a sense, and I’ve been chasing this shadow of you for my entire career. Even though I—” Shane looks out over the café and shakes his head “—I don’t regret how things ended between us.”

“I do.” Isaac smiles slightly as Shane turns back to face him. Twenty years provides a lot of perspective, and Shane has always been far wiser than he lets on. Right place, wrong time. “Not because I think we should have ended up together, but because I was too proud to admit that your life belongs to you, and you alone.”

Something soft and vulnerable flickers across Shane’s face. It makes him look unbearably young, and that fragile, exquisite ache flares to life in Isaac’s chest, dormant for so many years but never truly forgotten. “You’re so…” Shane shakes his head again.

“So what?”

“I don’t know.” Shane shuts his eyes and rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, and I’m tired of not knowing.”

“Shane, look at me,” Isaac says softly. Shane opens his eyes, and his gaze is impossibly dark as Isaac traces the lines framing his lips with the pad of this thumb. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Shane smirks as he leans into Isaac’s touch. “Tell me, darling. Am I allowed to find love for the first time at my advanced age?”

“Yeah, I reckon you’re allowed.” Isaac smiles and tugs Shane closer. “And you’re not that old.”

Shane chuckles, but his brown eyes are bright as he takes Isaac’s hand. “I will try for you, Isaac. I will give you everything I have, because it’s what you deserve, my god, it’s what you deserve.” He presses Isaac’s hand against his chest, and Shane’s heart pounds frantically against Isaac’s palm. “But you have to take me as I am, because I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

“You’re enough, Shane.” Isaac kisses him, slow and sweet, because they have all the time in the world, a lifetime of easy kisses and gentle hands sliding over warm skin, Judy Garland singing in the kitchen as Isaac cooks them dinner, those lovely lines gracing Shane’s face deepening with every smile. We can have this, and so much more. “You’re more than enough.”

Shane rests his forehead against Isaac's. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” Isaac quickly replies. “Where do you want to go?”

“Well, we could go back to my rubbish little flat with the worst kitchen you’ve ever seen in your entire life, but I have another idea.” Shane smiles and takes Isaac’s face in his hands. “Have you ever been to Wynsbury?”