Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“... blinded by the lights, no, I can't sleep until I feel your ... the Today FM app and hit play on Today FM Rocks … it’s 6 o’clock, good morning, I’m … 93% of people say…”

Stephen flitted in and out of consciousness, the radio puncturing his dream as he tried to grasp a few more precious seconds of sleep.  He reached muzzily for the snooze button, muscle memory guiding his hand to… wait, what was that?  Why was there something in front of his alarm clock?  What was it?  He opened his eyes to the pre-dawn gloom and squinted blearily at his bedside table.  A sliver of streetlight escaped a crack in the curtains and fell across it, revealing a flash of red.  Was that…

Oh fuck.

His residual tiredness vanished in an instant.

An envelope, reading Stephen in Gerald’s familiar, neat penmanship.

His heart sank.

Valentine’s Day?  They were doing Valentine’s Day?  Nobody said anything about doing Valentine’s Day!

—

Stephen hit snooze a second time, though sleep was far from his mind.  He was hiding in his bedroom, imitating his usual dilatory morning routine in hopes of avoiding Gerald entirely before work.

Valentine's Day?  Really?  A card would have been bad enough, or a card and a box of supermarket chocolates.  But no, stupid bloody Gerald had to give a stupid bloody present.  An actual present.  After three weeks.  Sure, they'd been flatmates, friends, for years.  But this wasn't a present you'd buy for your friend, not even your best friend.  This was considered, generous, intimate.  It was perfect.  How long had he thought about it?

He inspected the offending item for a fourth, or was it fifth, time.  Maybe this time it’d turn out to be a hallucination brought on by the early hour, and he would in fact discover he held nothing more than a box of Lily O’Brien’s Vanilla Truffles.

Nope.

Still a rucksack.

Still a very expensive looking rucksack.  Waterproof - he'd moaned that his old one leaked - with ergonomic straps and lots of useful looking compartments that Gerald probably thought, rather optimistically, might bring organisation into Stephen’s life.  He recognised the brand - an outdoorsy one Gerald liked so much that Stephen had accused him of owning shares.  It was smart, but practical.  And definitely expensive.

God forbid he ever ran into any of the lads on the Luas, they'd be at him for months over this.  They… tolerated Gerald, broadly.  He wasn't exempt from slagging by any means, but his foibles, his… Geraldishness, were subjected more to confused indifference than overt disdain.

The pen loops were filled with pristine stationery.  A sleek clicky pen, an expensive looking mechanical pencil, a Sharpie, a highlighter…

Foibles.  That's a Gerald word.  If ever Stephen used Gerald words, the lads were vicious.  You can live with him , was the message, you can be friends with him, you can fuck him for all we care… but don't you dare become him.

Gerald had thought of everything.  There was a neatly folded rain cover - he'd really moaned about the leaking.  A zipped pocket contained Post-Its and a little notepad, another an emergency tenner.  From the key hook dangled a St Christopher.  A side pocket contained a stainless steel water bottle.  They’d argued - not for the first time - about Stephen’s plastic water bottle habits just last week.  A present’s an underhanded way to win an argument, Gerald.  You can’t complain about a present.

There was even a book - a book - slipped into the laptop sleeve, a Post-It on the front cheerfully proclaiming “for the Luas”.  Glancing at the back cover, Stephen admitted to himself against his better nature that maybe, maybe it might be interesting.  Moderately.  If there was a particularly long delay.

If he’s going to this much effort for Valentine’s Day, when will he start thinking about Christmas?

From the kitchen came the familiar sound of Gerald's fancy coffee machine as it sputtered and screamed its own dawn chorus.  Stephen saw his chance and bolted for the bathroom.

Behind the sanctuary of its locked door, he dared to breathe again.  On autopilot he popped a PrEP tablet from its blister, chucked it into his mouth, ran the tap and drank deeply.  He straightened up, reached for his shaver and brought it towards his face, then stopped, catching his own eye in the mirror.

He stared at his reflection, shaver held in midair.

To shave or not to shave?  Stubble is sexy, right?  But Gerald can be so… proper.  He thought back to that first, fumbling night, hands getting to know the landscape of a new body, his fingertips testing the contours of Gerald’s face, the abrasive five o’clock - to be honest, a damn sight later than that - shadow.  He’d slagged Gerald for that, for not caring enough to shave fresh for the theatre.  Not that Stephen gave a toss about etiquette, it was just slagging as foreplay, working out which buttons to push to get a rise from him.  Gerald had called him a scruff in response, rubbing his own thumbs over what Stephen had protested was designer stubble, but in truth had had more to do with running late for work that morning.

He thought about Gerald silencing those protestations with a kiss.

Not to shave then.

He heard footsteps approach.  “Are you in the bathroom, Stephen?”

He quickly thumbed the shaver into action, shouting exaggeratedly over its buzz, “can't hear you, shaving!”  He prayed Gerald would have forgotten that by evening.  He kept the shaver running until he heard noise from the kitchen again, the clatter of the dishwasher being unloaded.

—

Stephen stepped into the shower.  As he closed the door, he heard Gerald outside the bathroom again.  “Will you be long?  I need to brush my teeth.”

Stephen wrenched the shower to full blast in a single action, his breath catching as the ice-cold water hit him.  “I can’t hear you, I’m in the shower!”

Whatever Gerald said in response, Stephen genuinely could not make it out over the drum of the water.  Slowly the needles of cold water were warming to something approaching tolerable.  He closed his eyes, let the water sluice over his body, taking a moment to breathe, to centre himself.  The water ran hotter and hotter until it started to sting.  That was good.  Focus on that.  No space for bloody Gerald in his head against that.  He braced his hands against the wall then leant forward, resting his forehead on the wet tiles, letting the torrent of water beat down on his back.

Bloody, bloody Gerald.

He could at least have done the decent thing and warned him about the incoming surprise.  That was fair, right?  You can’t just expect a guy to know in the first year - the first month - that Valentine’s Day was on the cards.

How long had he been in the shower?  How long did he need to hide in there?  Gerald would leave soon, surely.  Hadn’t he been bitching last night about having to be in early for a meeting with Adelaide?  He was always in a foul mood whenever he had to have anything to do with the Adelaide office, apparently not just because of the hideous time difference.  Stephen had the impression there was some sort of history there, but he daren’t ask.  Just his luck, Gerald might actually tell him.  Better just to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

He could bear the scalding water no more.  He turned the dial down a notch and reached for the shampoo.

—

Stephen wiped a hole in the steamed-up mirror and contemplated his reflection once more, his face now bright pink.  He ran his hand through the wet hair spiking randomly.  Was the stubble a mistake?  What if Gerald thought it was laziness?  Did he even have a preference?  He’d never been so tangled up inside his own head in previous relationships.  Bloody Gerald.

He should shave.  That was the safe option.  But fresh out of the shower and electric shaver did not mix.  He rooted around in the drawer for an emergency Bic, but found only an empty packet.  Shite.  His eyes lit upon Gerald’s Gillette.  He shouldn't.  He mustn't.  That was too transgressive, too intimate, too soon.  He'd never know, though… but you'd know.  Don't start a relationship with a betrayal.

Stubble, then. Decision made.

He heard Gerald approach once more.  Shite!  He still hadn't gone?

“I'm off now!”

Stephen grabbed his toothbrush and stuffed it into his mouth, brushing vigorously before giving a garbled response.

“Oh, brushing your teeth?  Sorry, didn't realise!  I'm off, I'll see you later!  I'm cooking tonight!  Have a good day!  If you’re running late could you let me know?”  Gerald’s voice quietened as he retreated.  Only once Stephen heard the door close and the scratch of the key in the lock did he dare stop brushing, spitting out a mouthful that tasted of stale toothpaste.  Right.  Running seriously late now.

Chapter Text

Unironed shirt hastily donned and tucked into trousers with a hopefully not-too-obvious stain, tie knotted sloppily around his neck, Stephen entered the kitchen, tossing onto the back of a chair his only suit jacket that didn’t desperately need to visit the dry-cleaners.  Not for the first time he thought enviously of Gerald, with his casual dress code and job he actually liked.  And who apparently could still find time to clean up after himself in the kitchen even when dashing into the office for an early meeting.  It was spotless.

The kitchen table was laid for one.  A bowl of dry Frosties, spoon neatly to the side, a glass of orange juice, Gerald’s spare travel mug, and a little bowl containing Stephen’s multivitamin and cod liver oil capsule - such an unbearably Geraldy touch that Stephen rolled his eyes, then felt immediately guilty, as if somehow Gerald would know.  He threw the supplements into his mouth together and downed the orange juice in one.  His earlier performative toothbrushing exacted its revenge for his cowardice.  Vile.

There was a note tucked under the travel mug, from the memo block Gerald insisted on keeping next to the landline Gerald insisted on keeping.

You’re going to be late.  Here’s a head start.

In case he didn’t feel enough guilt over the rucksack already.  Gerald had been bad enough as a flatmate, it was this sort of thoughtful gesture which was going to make him unbearable as a… whatever they were now.

OK. OK.  He could do this.  Just go to Supervalu on the way home from the gym.

He took a sip from the travel mug and winced at the bitterness.  Gerald knew full well how Stephen took his coffee, but disapproved of the generous dose of sugar.  He unscrewed the lid, scooped a few heaping spoonfuls from the sugar canister into it and gave it a cursory stir, before dropping the used spoon into the sink.

What would he get in Supervalu though?  Dunnes, then.  Hop on the Luas near the gym, go to Dunnes, buy… a shirt?  Tie?  Fancy stationery?  Gerald loves that sort of shite, one of those weirdos who gets excited about pens.  Slippers?  He's not your grandad.  Throw cushion?  No, you’re not qualified for interior decor, and if the lads ever heard you had voluntarily bought a throw cushion…  It didn’t bear thinking about.  There’d be something, though.  Something.

Stephen took the milk from the fridge door, splashed some hurriedly into his bowl, and put the carton back, next to an expensive looking bottle of white wine.  Was that there yesterday?  That wasn’t there yesterday, was it?  And since when were those tuna steaks there?  They certainly weren’t there on Sunday, when he’d come back from spin class ravenous and turned the fridge upside down trying to find protein.  Gerald must have got them last night, when he’d run out to the shops after dinner for… whatever it was he said he was getting.  Stephen had been preoccupied on the beaches of Normandy at the time and hadn’t really listened.  Presumably he’d picked up the stuffed peppers and that pack of peat-smoked salmon at the same time.  Since when does Gerald have money for the fancy smoked salmon?

Oh fuck.

…I’m cooking tonight…

The memory echoed through Stephen’s head.

…if you’re running late…

Was he planning a romantic meal?

…I’m cooking tonight…

He dropped heavily into the chair.

He’s planning a romantic meal.

Shite.

Stephen started shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, mind racing.  So no gym then, straight home from work.  He’d have to take that one on the chin, text the trainer his apologies and accept whatever atonement was imposed for missing the class.  There was something weird about his current gym programme, it would be a relief to go back to his usual trainer when it was over.  Less compassion, understanding and gentle judgement, more crushing his self-esteem and exploiting his every vulnerability.  Like it should be.  Stephen hated his usual gym trainer, who in building up his body had broken down his mind.  He couldn’t wait to go back.  He was dreading what would be said about his leaving to try something different, something gentler.  About crawling back when it had failed.  And yet, he was relishing the thought of that inevitable humiliation, of channelling the burning shame.  It would drive months of punishing workouts.

But for now, it was all about empathy and contrition.  Maybe if he went at lunch, put in 45 minutes of hard cardio, that would be penance enough…  But then when would he get a present?  Oh, there’s the pharmacy next door!

A nagging feeling entered his mind.  The pharmacy?  Really?  And buy him what, a toiletries gift set?  A quiet voice he was used to ignoring mused that that was the bloke equivalent to petrol station flowers.  The voice sounded suspiciously like Gerald.

But it's practical!  Gerald won't want useless clutter.  A toiletries gift set is useful, who can't make use of a toiletries gift set?  You can use the body wash to wash your body, you can use the body spray to… spray it.

An image flickered across his mind.  On Sunday, retrieving some clothing from Gerald's room which had been discarded the night before.  Tidying hadn't seemed a priority as he'd shuffled back to his own room at 2am.  Looking under the bed for his second sock, he'd noticed the battered Lynx Africa gift set pushed into the back corner.

Gerald.  Gerald is who can't make use of a toiletries gift set.

Not the pharmacy then.  And not the gym.  Dash into town at lunch, go to Dunnes and grab something.  A… rug?  An armchair?  A houseplant?  Do they sell plants in Dunnes?  Stephen had never paid attention.  Plants were not Stephen’s thing.  He was relieved when, after the Greece incident, Gerald forbade him from going anywhere near the replacement massive… whatever it was he bought and put behind the sofa.  How will I know which one to get him?  People who like plants probably like specific plants, right?  Not all plants.  What if I get the wrong plant?  Gerald would never say anything, obviously.  Far too polite.  Gerald’s probably never liked a single thing I've given him.  Well, there was Saturday night.  Gerald certainly liked what you gave him then.

Feels like this might be a good point to start trying a bit harder, doesn’t it.

Stephen ate the last soggy Frosties, picked up the bowl, then hesitated.  Gerald’s not here, he won’t know.  He raised it to his lips and drank the sugary milk.

Why couldn’t Gerald be easier?  Kenneth had been easy.  Kenneth was a lad.  A Clarkson book every birthday, the latest Game of Thrones DVD for Christmas and everything was grand.  Of course, Kenneth had also been an asshole.  There was that.

Stephen placed his empty dishes in the sink.  Should he take the new rucksack to work today?  What's the etiquette for waiting to use a present?  Is there etiquette?

Of course there's etiquette.  And Gerald will know it. He glanced at the clock and considered how long it would take to transfer the contents of his old bag. He contemplated the general detritus of the years - disintegrated tissues, empty solpadeine packets, a leaky pen, that amorphous blob of paperclips and melted Strepsils he never got round to chucking, the strata of receipts turning further to mulch every time it rained.  A particularly intrepid archaeologist could probably find remnants from his college days.

He weighed the offence caused by not showing instant gratitude against waiting until the weekend and doing the job properly.

Gerald will understand. Gerald likes a job done properly.

Chapter Text

Stephen’s lunch break passed in a blur, an overrunning morning Zoom dovetailing perfectly with an emergency all hands meeting, after which he wolfed down a bag of Taytos, an emergency protein bar from his locker and a bruised banana donated by a sympathetic friend in accounts, washing it down with a particularly anaemic vending machine coffee.  Then he set about his afternoon’s work prostrating himself in a series of increasingly remorseful calls to increasingly unhappy clients.

Which is how he found himself dashing after work to the Lidl by the Luas stop, ravenous and wondering how late you could be without texting to say you’ll be late when it’s your own home you’re arriving late at.  More etiquette to learn.  He'd never lived with someone he was fucking before.  Or, he'd never fucked someone he was living with before.  All a matter of perspective.

By the entrance there was a cardboard stand, a lacklustre selection of cards, well picked-over, remained.  Stephen cast an eye over the offerings.  Anything obviously hetero was out, anything cutesy ditto.  To my husband, that's a bit previous.  The love of my life…  For my darling…  My perfect partner…  Love you, Valentine…  I can't give Gerald any of these with a straight face.  What word are we even using?  Have either of us actually said boyfriend yet?  Or even dating?  He cast his mind back to that fateful night, to their stumbling confessions.  Against my better nature… have you ever thought… I know you won't feel the same… do you think you might ever… I had no idea you… would it be crazy if we…  He settled for a dog-eared card with a photo of a box of chocolates, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ inside.  Unable to see its matching envelope, he picked a pastel pink that was roughly the right size and seemed to have lost its card.  Gerald is secure in his masculinity and won’t be offended.

You could learn a lesson there, couldn’t you.

On a whim he grabbed the last, limp red rose from a bucket by the cards.  Worst case, he’d hold it between his teeth and hope Gerald thought laughter was the best present.

Inside, he scanned the middle aisle in desperation.  It was usually impossible to leave Lidl or Aldi without picking up something that he had no idea he desperately needed until he got there.  Would that still work if he counted on it happening?  Like the cards, the Valentines tat here was well picked over.  In short order he rejected: a teddy bear (slightly grotesque) with chocolates (you could do better in the chocolate aisle); a neck massager (bit weird); novelty socks & boxer briefs (just no); candles (Gerald preferred those scented sticks).  He popped one in his basket for Mother’s Day.  She’ll be so proud to know I'm already sorted in February!  Well, other than a card and some flowers and a lunch reservation at Milano’s.  Actually, when is Mother’s Day this year?

Focus.  Mother’s Day’s probably a month away, you can worry about it then, Valentine’s Day is two thirds over.

Under a sign for ‘Kitchen Essentials’ he considered a toastie maker, concluding that Gerald seemed perfectly happy with his panini press, and lingered over a set of knives.  It would be thoughtful, useful, Gerald had mentioned replacing their current ones.  But the message seemed… odd.  Gerald was a great believer in things being Meaningful and having Significance.  Happy (first?) Valentine’s Day, here’s a set of sharp implements.  Perhaps not.

The rest of the middle aisle seemed to be yoga mats (not a chance, he’ll probably drag me along), gym equipment (buying something you’ll just borrow, classy), DIY bits and bobs (I’ve no more idea what might be useful than he would) and baby toys (obviously not, and don’t invite questions you’re not ready to hear the answer to).

There’s got to be something.  I have got to find something.

You could cook for him.  Tomorrow.

No, tomorrow has got to be a gym day.

Thursday, then.

But cook what?  He’s clearly got big plans for tonight, well thought through, how am I going to compete with that staring at a sparsely stocked chiller cabinet in Lidl?

It’s not a competition.  You don't need to win.

But a score draw would be nice, wouldn’t it.

Gerald understands legumes and cheese pairing.  He knows how to make pasta and pronounce quinoa.  He’s not going to be won over by a Lidl tiramisu.  Though he might give a short lecture on the meaning of the name.

I can’t come home empty handed tonight.  I can’t give him nothing.

The rose in the teeth felt like an extremely thin joke if not backed up by… something.  Anything.  For a brief, ridiculous moment, he wondered whether the front door was sufficiently secluded to avoid a charge of outraging public decency.

You're not brave enough to strip off on the doorstep!

I'm desperate enough though.  And it would certainly surprise him.

Anything but that.  Somewhere in this shop there must be something that you can convincingly say I saw this and thought of you.  Or even better, truthfully say.

Stephen stared at a pile of steaks, hoping desperately for inspiration.  His eye was caught by a neighbouring shelf, which held cans of squirty cream.  Now there’s a thought…  He took one.  But what if I've misjudged things, and he runs a mile?  What if Gerald isn’t up for it?  Best pick up some strawberries too, for plausible deniability.  And a second can of cream, just in case he is.  Perhaps some chocolate sauce, for either eventuality.

And then… he saw it.  And he thought of Gerald.  A small tub, the last one left, tucked almost at the back of the shelf.  It was perfect.  It was silly and small and couldn’t hope to compare with whatever feast awaited and yet, it was perfect.

You’ll never live up to Gerald.  You’re not like him.  And he knows that.  He knows who you are and, unfathomably, is ok with that.

He’ll laugh in my face.

But he’ll appreciate the honesty.  He’ll see this for what it is - an attempt, though a crap one, to bridge the gap to his world.  You’re giving him the gift of slagging.  You might not be practised at romance, but you are very, very practised at being slagged.  And then he’ll spend half an hour explaining it all to you and you’ll nod and smile and let his voice wash over you like warm rain.

Decision made.

—

Stephen packed the meagre spoils of his shopping trip into his rucksack then rummaged through the bag for a biro that worked, and wrote the first thing he thought of in the card.

Gerald,
They say life is like a box of chocolates.  Some poor sod has to take the coconut creme no-one else wants.
Anyway, Happy Valentine’s Day.
Stephen.

He stared at the full stop, pen hovering over the card.  What did I do that for?  Who signs their name with a full stop?

Because you were going to put an x, weren’t you.  And then you came to your senses, a fraction too late.  So what’ll it be?

Stephen.
Stephen!
Stephen?
Stephen: your valentine

All terrible.

He added a tail to the n. Hopefully Gerald would dismiss it as the usual terrible handwriting.

Chapter Text

Key in hand, Stephen shuffled his feet nervously on the doormat.  This is ridiculous, it’s your own house.  Just go in!

But it’s my last chance to turn this around.  Think of something, anything, better.  Once I open this door, we’re committed.

He ran his hand nervously through his hair.  Then patted it down neatly.  Then ran it through again.  You committed to lovable scruff this morning, might as well go big or go home.  In a manner of speaking.

If Gerald ever, ever tells the lads about this…  Oh god.  It doesn’t bear thinking about.

This is trust.

He unknotted his tie, leaving it dangling loosely round his neck, then, grateful for even the scant seclusion offered at their front door, unbuttoned his shirt halfway.  Thank god for an unseasonably warm day.  He pulled his phone out, ignoring the ping of a WhatsApp notification, and flicked the camera to selfie, checking himself.  Effortlessly dishevelled?  Boyish insouciance?  Rumpled Daniel Craig with a rucksack?

Don’t go getting notions now.

Lad who doesn’t know how to do romance, but is well versed in looking like a total spanner?

Spot on.

He pulled the limp German discount red rose from the crush straps on his rucksack and faltered.

Do it.

I feel ridiculous.

Make him laugh.  You love it when he laughs.  There is no better sound than Gerald laughing, except Gerald laughing at your joke.

Before he could change his mind, he pulled the wrapper off, scrunching it into a ball in his back pocket.  He took it gingerly between his teeth, then attempted to arrange his face into something more appealing than a grimace, wincing as the thorns scratched his lips. Funny how the films don't show that part.

He took a deep breath, or as deep as he could whilst biting barbed botanicals.  Hand shaking, he put his key in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open.

“Is that you Stephen?”

Honestly not sure right now.

The kitchen door burst open, a cloud of good smells and warm light flooding into the dim hallway.  A Geraldy silhouette stood there for a moment, backlit, the halo picking out his neat waves of hair, the tips of his ears, then flicked the hall light on.  He was wearing a dark teal shirt, open at the collar with the arms rolled up, and smart navy woollen trousers.  Over it all his apron, dusted with floury handprints and smears of this and that, and a pair of oven gloves, as if caught in the middle of some vital task.  An alluring smudge of flour on his nose was so perfect it might have been put there by a make-up artist.

How does he do it?  I put so much work into looking effortless, he manages it without even trying.  Bloody Gerald.

The pair of tatty slippers only slightly ruined the effect.

Gerald looked Stephen up and down.

“What time do you call this?”

Oh god.  He’s upset.  I spent too much bloody time panicking over a present.  I'm late.  I've ruined dinner.  I've ruined everything.

But the eyes.  There’s laughter in his eyes.  Right?

“Are you… what on earth are you…” the corners of Gerald's mouth were creasing, “you could at least have made an effort!”  He lost the battle and laughed.  His warm, generous bark of a laugh, unrestrained, unselfconscious.

Victory.

—

Fifteen minutes later, Stephen sunk into the chair at the kitchen table.  The breakfast panic felt a lifetime ago.

A quick trip to the bedroom had allowed him to swap his hated work suit for his solitary pair of chinos, usually reserved for weddings, and a navy shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows in the hopes that echoing Gerald’s relaxed style might somehow convince his brain to do the same.  He’d run his hairbrush through the day’s genuinely unkempt hair, then rubbed some gel in an attempt to recreate the same look with intention.

Gerald was busying himself with his back to Stephen, singing under his breath as he did… whatever it was he was doing.  He turned and handed Stephen a glass of red wine, ”you look like you need this.”

Stephen accepted the glass, closed his eyes and took a sip.  “I do.  Thanks.”  The stresses of his day began to melt away.  Was it the wine or just Gerald’s tender domesticity?  That’s nothing new, he’s always been caring.  But it feels different now, doesn’t it.  He took another sip.  “Sorry I’m so late, I ran to the shops.”

Gerald’s look of gentle concern was replaced in an instant with a beaming smile.  “Oh fantastic, you got my message?”

Message?

What message?

“What message?”

“I WhatsApped you maybe… an hour ago?”

“Uh, no.  Sorry.  Oh, I did get a notification when I got home, but that was only, what, 10 minutes ago?  I didn’t actually read it, what with,” he waved his hand vaguely, “everything.  Trying to make the right impression.  I wonder why I didn’t get it…  Oh shite.  Of course.  I’ve got data off.  God, Gerald, I’m so sorry.”  He reached for his phone.  “Was it something you needed?  I can run back out?”

“Yeah, no.  It’ll be ok.”  Gerald’s face fell, betraying the lie.  “Just something I was… I just wanted to make a special meal.  For tonight, you know.”  He turned back to the food he was preparing, picked up a knife and started chopping vigorously.  “I’ve burnt three batches of sodding tuilles and now we’re out of parmesan so I can’t make a fourth,” his voice was becoming tremulous, “and there was meant to be some in the potatoes too, so they’re gonna lack oomph, I’m pretty certain I’ve overfolded the soufflés so that’s all three courses ruined and this is all turning into a bit of disaster.  I’m so sorry.”

Stephen let silence hang in the air, uncomfortably.  He’d never seen Gerald like this before.

Say something.  Reassure him.

“Ah, sure, I was probably just going to grab KFC after the gym tonight, so my bar’s very low.”

Not that, you idiot.

The rhythmic rattle of the knife stopped.  “You’re not helping, you know.”

I know.

“Sorry.  Um.  Actually…”  Stephen reached for his rucksack, dumped on the other chair, and started to rummage.  “Oh.  Sorry, I should have…  Thanks for the, you know, the, um.  The present.  The rucksack.  It’s grand.  I mean, it’s, it’s really…  Thanks.  I know I’ve not used it today, I hope you weren’t disappointed when I came home with my old one still, one last spin, you know, and I wanted to do it properly, not just dump all the crap from my old bag into it, I thought that you would—”

“Stephen, it’s ok.  You don’t have to use it the second you get it.  I’m just glad to know you like it.  I wasn’t sure.”

“Sure, of course, I do, yeah, it’s grand.  I mean, it’s great.  It’s perfect.”

The chopping resumed.

Stephen continued to rummage in the bag, strawberry punnet crackling and tins of cream clinking together, until at last he found it.  And then he froze.  A wave of doubt washed over him.  What was I thinking?  How did I ever think this could compare to everything he’s done, is doing.  He’s dropped a couple of hundred euro on me, I spent €3 panic-buying in Lidl on a pathetic gesture.

It’s not pathetic.  Well, maybe a little bit.  But it’s a meaningful gesture.  It’s thoughtful.  You saw it and thought of him.  Gerald likes that sort of shite.  And maybe you do too.

It’s important to him.  And he’s… he’s important to me.

“Gerald?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you have a sec.  I’ve got… I know you’re up to your eyes in cooking, which, you know, thanks, and I don’t want to interrupt, especially not when you’ve got a sizeable knife in your hand, but if you have a moment there’s something I’d… it’s not important.  It can probably wait.”

“Of course it can’t.  Just give me a sec…”  Gerald put the knife down and ran his hands quickly under the tap, drying them on his apron as he turned to face Stephen.  “What is it?”

“It’s nothing really, I just… I wanted to get you something.  Uh… close your eyes and open your hands?”

“Ooh, a present.”  Gerald complied.  “You didn’t have to, though.  That’s not why I did any of this.  It’s not a transaction.”

“I know it’s not.  Closer… closer… sorry, it’s really not much at all… yeah, that close’ll do.  Here.  Sorry it’s not wrapped.”  Stephen placed a small tub in Gerald’s outstretched fingers.  As their hands briefly touched, a shiver ran down his spine.  “I, uh, I didn’t realise, I didn’t know we were doing… this.  Valentine’s Day.  You didn’t say.  I’ve never done it before.  Sorry.  It’s total shite, really, compared to all this.”  He bit his lip.

“Stephen?”

“Yeah?”

“How about I decide if it’s total shite.  Can I open my eyes yet?”

“I guess at some point you’re going to have to.”  Stephen shrunk back into the kitchen chair, wrapping his arms around himself defensively.  “Go ahead.”  Get it over with.  Please.

Gerald opened his eyes and broke into a broad grin.  “Stephen you’re a godsend!”

What?

“You swear you hadn’t seen my message?”

“What?”  Stephen fiddled with his phone.  “No, actually I still haven’t…”

“This is amazing!  Thank you so much.”  Gerald peeled the film lid from the tub, raised it to his nose and took a deep breath.  “It's exactly what I needed. You’ve saved dinner.”

“Oh. Grand.” Didn't see that coming. “It’s grana padano though, not parmesan.  Will that matter?”

Gerald lifted out one of many small, heart-shaped lump of cheeses.  He held it to the light.  “Not at all.”

Well that went better than expected.

“It’s perfect.”  Gerald placed the cheese back into the tub and started to rummage through a drawer of utensils.  “I love you.”

Stephen’s heart skipped a beat.

The L word?  We're using the L word?  Nobody said anything about using the L word!

Oh fuck.