Chapter Text
Beautiful "Intimacy" illustration by val_illustrates018
“Catch up.”
Chris huffed at the snappy remark, giving the little skip that was expected of him each time Neil’s impatience woke him from his usual state of trance. Mr Universalis’ stride was always a bit too fast for him anyway, a bit too hasty, as if Mr Universalis had places to be – and Chris didn’t.
Maybe it’s them long legs, he pondered as his gaze slid up Neil’s calves, past the bump of his arse that bounced under black baggy trousers, until his eyes rested on the back of neatly coiffed curls.
N’aw wait, let’s linger a bi’ longer on that arse, shall we? I mean everyone else does, he shrugged to himself.
Chris had been asked before if he was jealous of Neil - of his popularity, his angel voice, his ability to beguile both men and women the minute he walked into a room. To be brutally honest, there was something exceedingly annoying about the way Neil always took the lead in a conversation, about his constant need to be in the spotlight. But no, Chris was not jealous of Neil – at least not in the way those nosy reporters wanted him to.
He glanced at the dark locks in front of him, his own hands stubbornly buried in the pockets of his jeans.
No touching, he reminded himself, not ever. It was The Law.
“Did ya get us anything to eat a’ least?” he asked trying to keep up with Neil’s brisk pace.
“Your favourite,” was Neil’s laconic answer as he turned to shake a paper bag in front of the younger man’s nose.
“What’s me favourite?” Chris wondered, baffled. “I have many favourites.”
“Help me find a place to sit and you’ll see,” said Neil with some heat.
Chris took a sharp breath in; if Neil wanted to take a walk along the South Bank instead of being at the studio recording songs about Elvis and dogs and dominoes, and if he chose a sandwich and a cup of tea instead of a proper meal and red wine, it only meant that Mr Eyebrows here needed the anonymity of a bench and lots of open space to breathe.
It meant he was upset.
Chris pushed himself forward with renewed energy; after all there was drama to be shared and food to be chomped on at the end of their quest for the perfect bench. Still, it was hard to keep up with those legs - long, lithe, driven by steel and purpose. Maybe it was also the fact that the owner of those endless limbs didn’t get as easily tired as Chris did. Neil was tireless. Neil was perfect.
Chris, on the other hand, was always tired; he would do anything lying down, eat and drink and have a shower and take a shit in bed if he could. The only occasions when he would jump to his feet without grunting was when he went clubbing with his friends, dancing until he burned holes in his shoes. Secondly, when inspiration struck him like lightning, when the keys were calling to him from the other room like a siren’s song, beckoning his well-trained fingers to coax otherworldly melodies and ecstatic beats from them; and finally, when tea and quiches were being served - that one was truly irresistible. He could never tell why those three things were such big motivators in his life, but they were.
Neil teased him mercilessly about his need to stay horizontal for the biggest part of the day, then again everything was funny to Mr Universalis when Chris was around; Neil could hardly keep a straight face when they were working together, ruining the shot with spontaneous bursts of laughter while Chris remained frozen like a statue and all serious-like. The director and the crew might get a tad annoyed, but Chris? He couldn’t help but take a little pride in the fact that his jokes always made Neil fold in half, his wide mouth opening even wider, his boyish high-pitched cawing filling the studio; as if the two of them were back in school, playing around with microphones and taking the mickey out of Modern Talking and Wham.
A loud swarm of highschoolers walked past them singing “You gotta fight for your right to party” and reminded Chris to take off his red baseball cap and place it urgently on Neil’s head.
“What are you doing?” demanded Neil fidgeting with the brim.
“Disguising us both,” replied Chris. “People expect to see me in a cap and you without it, no' the other way round. And there are far too many schoolkids and tourists ‘ere, I can’t stand the staring.”
Neil heaved an impatient huff. “Nobody is staring at us, Lowe--” he said as he carefully brushed aside a strand of hair, tucking it under the cap.
“Well, now they’re no’. ‘Cause me hat trick actually works.”
Neil took off the red cap, stared at it for a couple of seconds and buried his nose in it, filling his lungs with its scent. “Oh my goodness, you’ve been sweating buckets in this thing, haven’t you?” he observed.
His words bore the distinctive sting of a typical Tennant reprimand whereas his eyelids, sliding closed as if lost in a dream, flickered with each deep breath, each long exhale and with what might have been a tiny, barely audible moan. Chris tried hard to keep his eyes trained on the distant hazy outline of the Parliament, resisting the urge to savour every little expression on Neil’s pixie-like face as it was being devoured by his cap – and the tantalizing sounds that came out of it.
The spell lasted no more than a few seductive seconds: Neil snapped his eyes open and placed the cap back on Chris’ head.
“You care too much about what people say,” he remarked.
“No, I don’,” Chris replied.
He was a simple man with simple needs who couldn’t stand being recognized in the streets – not that he ever was - and all he wanted right now was some peace and quiet to enjoy his ham sandwich in the park with his partner; because there was a ham sandwich in that paper bag Neil was holding, wasn’t there? And maybe chocolate muffins too, if he was lucky.
“There, let’s sit over there,” Neil pointed a finger at a large plane tree not far from the International Brigade memorial - a Lernaean Hydra of a beast with its bronze heads and fists melting into a massive U, desperately reaching for the sky. “Seems like a peaceful spot.”
“Peaceful, why? Are ya going to share state secrets wi’ me?” Chris teased.
“No, I’m this close to bursting to tears and I don’t want any spotty teenagers witnessing the sniveling mess I’m about to become,” Neil retorted as he shoved a leaf off the bench. “…Bad memories.”
He placed the paper bag and the cups of tea on the side and tapped the seat next to him, inviting Chris to sit down.
“Tears?” Chris furrowed his brow and settled next to Neil, sneaking glances at the crumpled paper bag that was way out of his reach. “What ‘appened?”
Neil drew in a shuddering breath. “I found this,” he murmured after a beat and pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his black jacket. “Under the bed.”
Chris almost flinched at the smelly rectangular object that might as well have CANCER written all over it. “Smokes,” he sneered. “Um… Okay...? Did ya find matches too?”
Neil glared at him. “That’s not funny, Lowe.”
“N’aw, ah mean, we could smoke the whole pack you and I – if… if we were smokers that is…? I mean hurray, free… fags…?” He twitched a half smile that wasn’t returned.
“No, Chris, we’re not smokers,” Neil hissed, “and neither is Julian.”
“Julian?!” Chris widened his eyes. “Nevah took ‘im for a smoker.”
“He is not,” Neil sighed. “This is someone else’s pack. I found it under his side of the bed two days ago, after I came back from the airport.” He began to rub his broad forehead vigorously as if to drill a hole in it, struggling to get rid of a horrible memory. “He said he’d never do it again,” he muttered, almost to himself. “H-he promised, he…” A wet sound escaped his throat; when he opened his mouth again his lips were trembling.
Chris had never felt his chest clenching so quickly, so violently, and all of a sudden it wasn’t sweet autumn anymore. Everything around them had turned into a cold relentless winter. He looked up at the sun wondering what was worse, burning his retinas forever or seeing Neil crying. When he turned to his friend again, Neil’s ridiculously long eyelashes had the unmistakable glint of tears. That moment Chris forgot all about ham sandwiches and quiches and strawberry muffins, and the noisy crowd around them had been reduced to nothing more than a whisper: Neil was the only thing there was, the only thing his eyes and ears could focus on. And Neil was hurting.
He considered wrapping an arm around his boy’s shoulders but their unspoken vow made him stop: no gifts, no cards, no touching. Everything else was allowed but that kind of silly hurtful intimacy was not on the menu, not for them. They were here for the music, the euphoria, for the happiness of being creative together. Not for jealousy or indiscreet questions, and certainly not for touching. Touching was one complication in their creative lives they didn’t need.
Still, he fanned out his fingers just enough to feel the heat, his palm ghosting a mere inch over the curve of Neil’s back.
He’s hurting, don’ do it, this is no’ what he needs right now. Fuck, he’s sobbing.
Chris’ fingers curled promptly into a fist. He didn’t touch, he would never stoop to that; instead, he ran a slow finger down the seam of Neil’s sleeve. The message was clear: here for you. You know it.
“How can you be sure he brought a lovah in your apartment?” he said softly. “Maybe it was a friend sitting on the bed and smoking?”
“Then how do you explain these?” sobbed Neil pulling a little bundle of thin plastic foils out of his pocket. “I--I had thrown away the garbage before leaving for the airport, I always do. Then I came back to fuh—” he choked, “t-to find the bin full of them.” His hand was shaking.
One of the foils slipped out of his open palm and landed next to Chris’ trainer. The torn silver wrapper gave a nasty sparkle: condoms.
Chris wrinkled his nose. “You’re gonna have to pick tha’ up ‘cause I’m no’ going to.”
Back to cracking jokes it was – his one and only defense against the world, life, and the one thing that stood between him and true happiness: feelings.
“I’ll-pick-the-bloody-thing-up…” Neil whimpered as he wiped his nose with the heel of his palm. “I need it for evidence after all,” he sniffled lifting the wrapper from the ground. “I need to rub it in his face.”
Chris shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever for? If he was screwing someone else, I’m sure no confrontation would make ‘im stop. We’ve been through this before. And if he wasn’t and you ‘ave just forgotten that you left the wrappers there yerself, then that’s unnecessary drama that is.”
Neil tilted his head on the side, glowering at him as tears kept running down his chin. “Unnecessary drama. How dare you. With Julian nothing is unnecessary drama.”
“It bloody is,” Chris insisted. “If he can’t help it, he can’t help it. And he never said ‘e loved ya, you told me that. Besides you don’ need ‘im, do ya? You could phone up what’s-his-name, Kerem, seems like a nice bloke. Or Carl. Or--”
Neil narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “You don’t understand, Julian and I were going steady. This is no run-of-the-mill relationship, Chris, this is the real thing. He’s the one.”
Chris took a moment to study Neil’s face hoping that he was joking, wondering if ‘deNeil’ was ever used as an alternate spelling for ‘denial’: nope, his lovestruck heartbroken mate was dead serious.
He dragged his hands over his face. “Neil. Neil. Ugh. If this was ‘the real thing’ he wouldn’t be shagging someone else, now would ‘e?”
“Well…” faltered Neil as he scratched the back of his head, “it’s not like I didn’t have my moments of weakness myself,” he shrugged and a flush of embarrassment rose to his tear-stained cheeks. “But that’s in the past,” he lifted a finger to stop Chris from even opening his mouth, “I told him it would never happen again. Because I love him, Chris. Because I want to be with him. I just…” He drew in a shaky breath. “I just thought he felt the same…” he trailed off. “I just thought—"
Fresh tears rolled down Neil’s baby cheeks.
Chris shoved a hand into his pocket, pulled a tissue out of the pack and handed it to him. “ ‘Ere. Dry your eyes, man, ye’re a mess,” he said gently managing a timid smile.
Neil took the tissue and wiped his cheeks and nose with small pats.
“Maybe…” Chris shrugged knowing that what he was about to say might not be the most comforting of suggestions, “maybe monogamy is not your thing, y’know?” He chewed on his lip, wary of the look on Neil’s face. “Maybe you boys should ‘ave an open relationship…?”
Neil gave his nose one last wipe and folded the tissue carefully before hiding it in his pocket. “I’m done with open relationships,” he answered. “I want to settle down. I’m sick of it all.”
Neil’s statement was so shocking that Chris gave out a hearty guffaw, his cap almost falling off his head; when he turned to Neil again, his eyes opening even wider at the realisation that this lad wasn’t joking, he burst into a fit of laughter so loud and hysterical that he frightened off the pigeons around them. Inch by inch he collapsed on the bench, rubbing his eyes with both palms as thick waves of laughter weakened into small giggles - and yet, between wiping tears and trying to take deep breaths, he could see The Pout of Doom out of the corner of his eye: Mr Neil Francis Tennant was not amused.
“Settle down?” Chris mocked despite the storm brewing in Neil’s gaze, “ye can’t be serious, mate?!”
“Why not?” Neil flared.
“Because…” Chris folded his arms across his chest, “because you’re no’ the type to settle down, thass ‘WHY’”. The words came out too quickly, the ‘why’ too cocky. “From the day I met ya I don’ even remember ‘ow many guys you’ve been with, I mean do you?...”
It took him a few seconds to realise that all of the colour had drained from Neil’s face.
Neil blinked at him slowly, his eyes still red from crying, his beautifully curved lips glistening with drying tears.
“How do you know ‘my type’, Chris?” he muttered with a weak whispery voice, his gaze brimming with anger and hurt. “How do you know the first thing about me?”
Chris bit down on his lip hard, hoping that the copper taste of blood would eventually take his mind off the ice in Neil’s tone. If only he could turn back time and erase the last few seconds, unsay the last few sentences. He was notorious for his strong outrageous opinions. He knew how harsh he could be, how his words could cut like a knife. It was always better to put a cork in it and keep to himself, wasn’t it? Better for everyone.
He couldn’t even glance at Neil now; instinctively he placed his fingers on his mouth (he would have shoved a fist in it if he could, if that could prevent him from spitting out more tosh) and began to bite his nails; when that childhood habit did nothing to appease the guilt that was raging in him, he slouched in his little corner of the bench trying to make himself as tiny as a mouse, to slip through the planks like an envelope.
Seconds of silence dragged on like thick clouds, broken only by Neil’s sniffles and the occasional cooing of pigeons that had returned, fluttering around their feet in search of crumbs and leftovers.
Chris heaved a deep sigh.
Enough.
He would be a good lad this time. Promise.
“I’m sorry, Neil,” he muttered. “I didn’… I didn’ mean to call ya a tart or anything. It’s jus’…” He turned to the beautiful desperate man next to him whose eyes were now glued to the ground, refusing to spare him a single glance. “It’s juss’ that…”, he shook his head with a deep frustrated huff, his unfinished sentence hanging in the air, heavy with regret. “You deserve so much more than easy shags and guys who cheat on ya the moment you walk through the bloody door to go to the bloody grocery store across the bloody street, d’y’know what I mean? You deserve to not be treated like junk. You deserve to not have your heart stomped all over.”
Neil scoffed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “If only that was easy.”
Chris flicked a nervous tongue over his lips; he never made a big statement without a touch of irony to go with it -or an impertinent snicker- but Neil needed to hear this right now. And Chris needed to say it.
Sod it, just say it.
“To me you’re perfect, Neil,” he said in one breath as a tint of colour rose on his cheeks. “You are perfection personified.”
Stop it. Oh God, you’re embarrassing yourself.
Neil huffed out a chuckle. “Yeah, right. Stop teasing.”
“No no, Neil, I’m serious,” persisted Chris.
He took a deep breath as he found it harder and harder to look him in the eye.
“You deserve to be loved,” he continued. “You deserve to not have your heart broken every time you decide to trust someone. Thass’ what I meant by ‘perfect’: I believe you’re perfectly capable of seeing the good and the bad in people - even if you choose to ignore it. I believe you’re a genius and a nice person who deserves whass’ best in life. I juss’ think--” He turned to meet Neil’s gaze. “I juss’ think… it’s about bleedin’ time you believed it too. When you truly believe you deserve the best, in your heart o’ hearts, you will no longer be able to put up with the people that don’t. D’y’know what I mean?”
Neil blinked at him once, twice, before raising one glorious brow as if he just had the most profound of revelations, his sapphire eyes shimmering in the sun like an ocean of gratitude.
Chris felt his stomach tighten for what seemed like an eternity; he just sat there stunned, amazed, utterly consumed by Neil and his full moon eyes, Neil and his fairy tale face.
If he says ‘Thank you, Chris’, I swear I’m gonna die.
Neil’s lips parted with some hesitance, waiting, as if his brilliant sensitive mind was carefully choosing the words to make the perfect poem, to form the perfect rhyme.
Chris held his breath.
“…Did you rehearse this speech?” Neil deadpanned. “Is it the new song you were telling me about? Because if you came up with these lyrics just now, oh my goodness, they’re smashing,” he added with a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
Chris’ mouth slacked open.
With a groan he threw up his hands in utter exasperation. “… You’re a royal arsehole, Tennant, d’y’know that?...”
Neil fell back on the bench, bursting into peals of laughter. “What?” he tittered with a Bugs Bunny grin slapped across his face, “I thought I was ‘perfection personified’, don’t go changing your mind on me now?!”
Prat.
“Screw you. Ugh. Why do I even bother,” exhaled Chris burying his face in his palms.
He had just made a complete fool of himself, hadn’t he? Opening his heart like that, being a sincere little pillock, and for what? Bollocks. He should be angry, furious, and he should stay furious, forever.
But all effort to stay angry with this man was futile: Neil’s happy contagious laughter was enveloping them like a soft breeze - and there, in that park overlooking the Thames, as if struck by a magic wand, it was autumn again, an autumn that felt a lot like summer. A glorious hot summer day, blooming in the middle of October.
“A’ least I made ya laugh, didn’ I?” the younger man snarled, his arms stubbornly wrapped around his ribs.
Neil placed a hand on Chris’ shoulder; his laughter was gurgling and uncontrollable and flowing wildly like a river but the touch was soft, considerate. Chris realised with some astonishment that this was the first time Neil was actually touching him, the first time those gentle fingers were kneading into his shoulder and back, pressing into his skin with wordless love and gratitude. And the feeling of it - oh God, it was heavenly.
“Don’t scowl, Chrissy, c’mon,” Neil pleaded, his tear-stained face beaming like sunshine after the rain. “It’s hard not to laugh when you get a serious face like that, you know it.” Another chuckle rose to his lips but Chris’ death stare made him swallow it. “Besides I wasn’t laughing at what you said. I was laughing because… it’s embarrassing, really. To have you of all people say those things to me. Yes, I’m sure I’m perfection personified and the nicest person that ever walked this earth and so on and so forth…” he bowed his head as if to thank an invisible audience, his hand remaining firmly on Chris’ shoulder. “…But you were wrong about one thing.”
“What?”
“Yes, there’s a genius right here, sitting on this very bench, a brilliant musician who can throw a real party and make people happy without having to rely on tequila,” said Neil as his lips curled into a smile, wide and confident and going all the way to his eyes, “but I assure you that’s not me.”
Chris held onto his frown stubbornly, the corners of his mouth forming a perfect arch of discontentment. He just sat there, stone-faced in his own sullen corner of the bench, dodging Neil’s cheerful gaze and wondering if they’d ever get to eat that sodding muffin for God’s sake.
“You’re the keyboard wizard here, not me,” Neil insisted, his voice filled with warm admiration, “and that is what makes you perfect. That’s the only reason – that and your superb dancing skills – why I found your speech a little funny,” he chuckled and his eyes sparkled with delight. “So don’t give me that ‘you’re a genius’ speech because I don’t want to hear it. Not from you.”
Chris shifted in his seat; getting unsolicited praise from Neil Tennant was the most uncomfortable thing in the world. Screw those nosy journalists and their indiscreet questions, this was ten times worse.
“…It wasn’t a speech,” he mumbled.
“What’s that?”
“I said, tha’ wasn’t a ‘speech’,” Chris blared out.
Neil’s lips twisted into an enigmatic smirk. “I know,” he said, his voice as calm and steady as the whispering wind.
He let out a deep sigh and rested his cheek on Chris’ shoulder, his perfectly styled curls almost brushing against the crook of his neck.
“I’m sorry for venting out like this on you,” he sighed letting his eyelids drop. “You have your own problems as it is. It’s just that… I want to truly belong to someone for once in my life, that’s all. I want to be able to trust.”
Chris gave a slight shrug, careful not to let Neil’s head slip off his shoulder. “Well… you belong to me,” he hummed, his light-hearted tone doing its best to veil the thunder of his beating heart. “You’re my very own Homo Universalis. Has anyone ever called you tha’?”, he cracked a little smile. “No. You’re mine then.”
Neil gave a gurgle of laughter. “Oh, I’m homo all right,” he joked as he reached for their cups and took a sip from his tea without leaving Chris’ shoulder. “Whether I’m ‘universalis’ as well is up to historians and anthropologists, I suppose.”
“Piss off,” Chris laughed giving Neil’s cheek a little slap. “You know what I mean. You could spend the whole night explaining the October Revolution to me, or giving a detailed analysis on each and every graffiti ever sprayed on the Berlin Wall. And then, in the wee hours o’ the morning, you’d probably recite the complete works of T.S. Eliot or some old thing – because this is who you are. You do all those things, you know all those things and you’re still no’ satisfied, you still don’ believe you deserve more. Why?”
Neil shrugged. “Dunno. Wrong choices, childhood insecurities, haven’t found the right partner yet. Take your pick.”
Chris gave a disappointed huff searching in vain for answers in the leafy branches that rustled over their heads; this man would never truly open up to him, would he? But maybe it was better this way, he reckoned, keeping the mystery and all; they would probably end up breaking each other’s heart anyway.
“We goin’ to eat or wha’?” he asked gesturing impatiently at the paper bag at the other end of the bench. “It’s getting cold.”
“You eat, I’m going to take a little kip,” Neil yawned and slid down Chris’ lap, stretching out a pair of slender legs along the bench and putting his feet up. “Chasing after Julian is exhausting.”
“Oh for God’s sake, get rid o’ tha’ fookin’ prick already,” Chris moaned.
Instead of an answer Neil floated his eyes shut, his fingers interlacing on his belly, the bow of his smile relaxing into an expression of softness and bliss.
Chris’ stomach had started growling even before Neil decided to use the bench as a bed, but now he wasn’t feeling it anymore. The sensation of Neil’s head lolling against his thigh was overwhelming enough to take his mind off the food and make him think how easily he could spend the rest of his life with Neil in his arms, on that bench, listening to the Thames roaring just a few feet underneath.
Neil cleared his throat and crossed his legs, the black leather of his shoes glistening in the afternoon sun. He wasn’t sleeping; he was drinking in the atmosphere.
“Third of October…” he murmured without opening his eyes. “Hm. It’s your birthday tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh…” Chris said dully giving Neil’s words little attention.
His mind had already wandered off, lost in the comforting white noise of people chattering in the distance and the cozy feel of Neil’s hair against his lap - touching it being only a matter of inches and unspoken vows.
Neil flew his eyes open and looked up at him, his long eyelashes flickering away the drowsiness. “What gift do you want for your birthday?”
“I though’ we said no gifts, no cards, no sex,” said Chris impassively, still absorbed in the chirping of birds and its hypnotising tempo.
“Did we really say that?” Neil wondered creasing his brow. “Hm. I don’t seem to recall such a conversation taking place.” He rested his hands on his stomach. “Well, I mean it’s your birthday,” he insisted. “It’s cheat day, you can have anything you want. Just ask.”
Chris took his eyes from the dancing clouds above them and looked down: his boy was still there, motionless, resting on his lap. Talking nonsense, waiting for him to give an answer to something he had barely heard - or to make his move. He felt his smile grow as he gazed down on the beautiful man who was looking back at him and with a soft chuckle he wiggled his fingers through the mist of Neil’s locks.
Neil parted his lips in a soft sigh, his lids falling heavy, his eyes, fixed on Chris’, overflowing with emotion. It could be anything, Chris thought, any old feeling.
Anticipation.
Yearning.
Love.
“What do you want?” Neil repeated, an expectant half smile flitting over his lips. “Just say it.”
Chris ran his fingers through Neil’s chestnut hair, tidying it up, picking a little twig that had nestled in it. “Nah,” he said tossing away the twig, “I have everything I need right ‘ere…”
His smile softened as he let his hand hover over Neil’s cheek, stretching it hesitantly across his chest and abdomen and reaching as far as his thigh. As he bent over him, their faces all but touching, he felt rather than heard Neil’s breath hitching. He paused for a second contemplating Neil’s porcelain features, wondering if his mouth was as pillowy and soft as he imagined it to be.
Was this a good time? Was ever a ‘good time’?
When he lifted his eyes again, he found that his arm was stretched enough to finally reach for his ‘birthday gift’: the crumpled paper bag that was resting next to Neil’s thigh, at the far end of the bench. He dragged it closer, dove his hand in it and with a content hum he pulled out what seemed to be the biggest, most fabulous ham sandwich this side of the Thames.
As he took a whiff of the delectable snack, he pretended he didn’t notice Neil’s eyes darting out (Ha! I can still surprise ya), finding an inkling of evil satisfaction in his disappointment; he went on to fumble with the remaining contents of the bag, wrinkled his brow at the one important thing that was missing and finally bit off a big chunk of the sandwich.
“… Although I wouldn’t mind a chocolate muffin to go with it,” he quipped as crumbs fell off his mouth.
Neil’s puzzled pout curled instantly into a vengeful little smirk; without sitting up, without even having to look at his target, he stretched an arm over his head to punch Chris right in the shoulder.
With an oof Chris spat out a mouthful of bread, tomato and ham, laughing and coughing his lungs out. “Tha’ hurt!”
“I hope it did,” Neil shot back with a playful glint in his eyes. He wriggled himself into a more comfortable position, put his arms behind his head and slid his eyes shut for a second time.
Chris took another bite from the sandwich, his gaze following the course of a seagull that was flying against the wind. The grace. The expertise. The exquisite stillness as he was finally gliding the current, like he had done a hundred times before. His feathers reminded Chris of black keys and white keys and the elaborate synth sounds that came out of them, perfectly placed, perfectly balanced.
He felt his fingers drumming on his knee, following the pulse of a melody that only he could hear; to him everything was rhythm, and it was nothing short of divine.
He shot Neil a glance.
Maybe this was a good time or maybe this was a bad time.
Maybe he’d rather write music than kiss him.
Maybe there were too many feelings involved or no feelings at all.
He knew that there were answers to all those very important questions - but today was not the day for them. Today was the day to be ecstatic with the balmy breeze caressing his skin, to enjoy what he never knew he wanted, to cherish his early birthday gift:
Neil in his arms, a bench, and the Thames roaring just a few feet underneath.