“People say things like “it wasn’t supposed to go this way” and “this isn’t what I wanted.” They’re just making noise. There’s no such thing as “supposed to,” and what you want doesn’t matter. All that matters is what happened.”
~ Mira Grant
~ ~ ~
"You 'lright, mate?" I ask. I don’t know his name. I don’t care. He’s cute. I want to fuck him.
He doesn't hear me. He's doodling on a napkin.
The music isn't that loud, though, so I'm not totally sure how he didn't hear me. "Mate?"
He looks at me.
"You all right?" I look him over real fast. He's got rings under his eyes and everything. He's got this wavy black hair and is slouched over drinking something I can't figure out. His glasses are slipping down his nose and he looks like a knackered librarian. Nerdish appearance aside, he's got this real cute face.
The bartender gets me my beer. I don’t know what he’s drinking. It looks like rum and coke. Or a whiskey? I don’t know. I don’t care.
I turn to lean against the bar. “Nice place, yeah?” I ask. Seems like the right thing to do right now.
The bar’s cool. It's like a really big airplane cabin. Like, long. Or even a wider-than-normal private train car. Bar’s on one side, seating along the walls, and light wells punch through the sloping ceiling.
Except I’m not that into the bar. I’m interested in stripping him down and seeing if he screams when I slam it into him.
He turns to me for a second, looks away, and then leans forward a little. "What?" And then he takes off his glasses to rub his eyes.
"You all right?"
He nods his head hard and then looks back at the three still-full drinks by him. "I'm just waiting for my friends to come back." His voice is distinctively American, except it has some weird English inflections mixed in. Like he's trying to blend in.
He puts back on his glasses and glances around, scratching the top of his head. His face is really round and you can tell it's a face that can express shit like nobody's fucking business, clearly not a British face. But his breath is heavy as he looks around the long room more than once. "They've been gone for half an hour," he says finally, after three minutes of checking the place.
"Mate?"
"What?"
I don't think he heard me. "I think they ditched you." He leans in, and I repeat myself.
"Why would they abandon me at the Bugle?"
I scoff. This poor kid. "Luv, this is the Bulge."
His eyes widen. In the blue light behind the bar, I can't tell what colour they are. "No...no. This is the Bugle. My friends told me so."
"Mate, this is the Bulge." I lean forward. "Though I can understand if you want to ditch them, too."
He turns back to the bar and sighs, putting his face in his hands. "I knew the sign wasn't a typo," he whispers, and then downs whatever is in his glass. “They insisted it was a typo, but I thought it was a little ridiculous that a brass instrument like that would be hanging that many rainbow flags on the front.” He throws back whatever he's drinking and taps the glass with his fingers. “Though it also might be because it's Soho, but still...” He trails off.
Thank God.
I signal for the bartender for another of whatever he was drinking.
The bartender fucking pours him a Diet Coke.
Sorry, let me clarify. Diet Coke with ice.
This poor kid, who's been abandoned at a gay bar by his friends, is drinking Diet Coke. And I don't even think he came to cruise like I did.
Honestly, I'd be drinking to forget.
"Wanna get out of here?" I ask in a low voice.
He sighs and looks around one more time. "Let me message them so I can tell them I'm leaving, okay?" He puts the napkin away in his pocket, pulls out some dosh for the drinks, and stands up.
I blink. "You can't do it outside?"
"Not without WiFi," he mutters, and I follow him out the door and back up towards the street.
The air is more refreshing than it was when I came into the bar three hours ago. There’s a breeze that kind of pushes towards the city centre, and it smells like car exhaust, cigarette smoke, and rubbish.
I mean, the street isn’t that pretty, either. It’s bland, safe for all the neon signs that’re humming.
And it isn't even the bar’s sign. There's a sushi place across the street. And then a corner shop next to the bar.
He sighs and rubs his arms like it's the first time he's been in the company of strangers. He looks at me and smiles, exhausted, and says, "Thanks." He buttons up a real posh-looking coat and wraps a muffler around his neck. I'm about to suggest we get a cab before going to his place, but by the time I glance back at him, he’s turned down the street towards this Mediterranean place by the intersection.
"Hey, wait!" I call. I catch up with him and match his pace. "The least I can do is...walk ya back to your flat."
He's not looking at me. "I'm catching the train." He grins, and there's dimples.
Fuck, that's cute.
But I blink. "Oh, 'lright." I didn't think he'd be into that. I've never gotten it on with someone on a train before. Taxi, yes. Bus, that was hot. But train? I've been missing out.
No, that's a lie. I've done it with someone on the Pendolino. But the Underground is trickier.
He takes in a slow breath and waits for a biker to pass. "You live down here?"
I shake my head. "Nah, I'm up in Islington."
The street's a little quieter now. He nods. "Ah. I'm just off Old Street."
We cross Shaftesbury Avenue and then turn onto a side street. He either isn't very talkative or is real shy. Either way, the perks of finding out if he screams is still interesting to me.
“How old are you?” he asks. He steps away.
“Don’t I look i'?” I ask, grinning.
He gives me this weird look. I don’t think he knows what to say to that.
“I’m nineteen,” I say. “You?”
He coughs, and walks round me so he doesn't walk through people who're smoking. "Twenty-one."
THE ACTUAL FUCK YOU DO NOT LOOK TWENTY-ONE. “Oh.”
He smiles and looks away at the upcoming traffic. He clears his throat and walks a little faster.
I’m a little disappointed when I realise he's probably not a screamer. I've met screamers. He...doesn't seem like one. Maybe he groans and moans? That's hot.
"What're ya doin' here?"
"What?" he asks. He's a good foot away from me.
"England. You're American, yeah?”
He chuckles. It doesn't sound real. “Is that painfully obvious?”
We cross the street. “What are you doin' here?" I ask again.
He sighs and looks at me, then back to the road. "Studying abroad. What else would I be doing?" He inhales, puts his hand to his mouth, then turns his head to look forward. "I mean, technically, I can't afford it, but I've always wanted to come here."
"Hm." Not really the answer I was looking for. Whatever.
"Y-your accent is nice," he stutters. But now he's watching the traffic on the road ahead.
I smirk. "Maybe you and it could get - "
He pulls me back as a bus goes by. "You need to be more careful!" he shrieks in my ear. "You could've gotten killed. Please be more attentive. And this is coming from me, of all people." He frowns for a second, then smiles. Dimples.
I glare. "What're you implyin'?"
"You're not paying attention," he says, grabbing my arm. “You almost got run over.”
Wonder why I'm not paying attention. "I think I'm payin' attention enough," I say, glancing him up and down.
He looks away again as we dodge cars on Charring Cross Road.
We get to the entrance of Leicester Square Underground station and he turns to me. "Well, uh...thank you, for walking me to the station. I appreciate it." He nods and turns to go down the steps.
I grab his arm. "What's the rush?" I point to the steakhouse right next door and grin. I can’t afford it, but he can’t leave yet. "Let's grab something."
He looks at the restaurant, then me. "What, there?”
“Yeah. There.” Don't care. Anywhere. Somewhere.
After a second, he says, “I can't afford that. I can barely afford to be here.”
OH MY GOD SHUT THE FUCK UP PICK UP THE FUCKING CUES, DUMBASS.
“I need to go study anyways. I have a defense argument on Brutalism I need to revise,” he says, shaking my hand off him. But the way he says it, there's no, like, desperation to get away. He sounds like he truly means it. “Thanks for – ”
“Where're ya headed?” I ask.
He points back toward the station.
YOU FUCKING DUMBASS PIECE OF SHIT.
"N-no," I force-laugh. “I meant...can I come with?”
I can actually see the fucking gears in his head turning.
And then he gasps and asks, real fucking loud, "Are...are you asking me out?"
I cringe. Because he's just too fucking loud and people're looking at us.
But I swear to God, I will get fucking laid tonight if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.
"Hm," I think, pulling out my phone. "Right, let's skip th' bullshit. Your station's, what, 20 minutes away?" I pause for a second. "Nah, too long. Hold on." I open my phone and begin scrolling through the contacts list. "I got a guy. Runs a taxi. He's my mate, so we can...” I whisper this through my teeth. “...do whatever an' he's real cool with it."
He blinks. And then steps forward. "Look, I...appreciate the offer for a cab, but I think I'm just gonna take the train. I need to get used to the area, anyways." And then he leans forward and asks, loudly, “Unless you want to show me around?” But then pulls back. “But I have to be back at my flat by 10 because I need to study.”
I look at my phone. It's almost 11.
"...do you want to do this?"
He cycles through different thought processes. It's written all over his dumb, fucking face – confused, surprised, back to confused, suspicious. And then asks, "What?” He’s just staring at me like he doesn’t really know what the hell I’m saying. Like I’m speaking another language or he’s just that barmy.
And then it hits me.
Maybe he’s just that daft. Or he's just slow. Because I kinda feel like this, like, unawareness is my fault.
I sigh and step back. "Sorry - ” Whatever the fuck your name is, dumbass. “I thought that..." How do I phrase this for him?
"...a guy at a bar would want to be asked out by someone?" he asks, scratching his arm. He slips on some gloves from his coat pocket. He tucks the ends of his muffler into his coat.
Not what I was going for, but okay.
"I know the situation seems kind of...out there - " He makes this exaggerated face and pushes air away from him. " - but I promise I wasn't there for that. Again, I didn't even realize it was a gay bar. I thought it was a bar called the Bugle. I-I am genuinely serious, I thought it was just a typo. My friends – well, I met them through my study abroad program, and I've been trying to hang out with them, but they keep ditching me so, so maybe I wouldn't really consider them friends, but, you know, they invited me to come out with them but they...kind of dragged me there."
I click my teeth. "...that's right, you didn't know it was a gay bar," I mutter.
"What?"
I put on this cheesy grin. And I know he won't notice the difference. "Nothin', mate. Jus' glad I could help you." Good fucking job, dumbass.
He halfheartedly smirks at me and begins backing away. "Have a good night..." His face twists back into, like, confusion, and he comes back towards me. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
I hold out my hand. "It's Tommy."
He shakes my hand, grinning. Like, a big-ass grin on his face. “Have a good night, Tommy. Thank you so much for your help. I really, really do appreciate it.”
I don't think there's any part of what he said that isn't true.
Makes me feel good.
And then turns to head into the Underground station.
Okay, now it's my turn to be confused because...don't people usually introduce themselves or some shit like that when they shake hands? I want to ask his name, but he won't hear me. And before long, he's gone.
"Fuckin' dumbass," I mutter, and turn back to head to the Bulge. Though I should probably be saying that to me instead.
An hour and five more shots of vodka in, my head's swimming. I get shot down three more times. I think it's three, I'm not sure. And not even the ugly ones want to fuck me.
I hear Mum saying something. The words're warped in my head and I can't understand them. But she's using that tone.
Fuck.
God I wish I was a smoker. That'd piss them off.
I want to go home.
I stay at the bar for another hour, groaning while I get a headache. The music and everyone talking kind of swirls together into this mess of loud noise. I want to go home. Something lumps in my throat, and it just makes me want to go home more.
Another hour goes by. I throw back a mix of stuff before I decide to head out back to Leicester Square station. Which just so happens to be the same fucking station I take to get home.
Everywhere I look, it's like my eyes're staring through water at shit.
I throw up somewhere.
Goddammit.
Comments (2)
See all