Chapter 20 #2
I’m not the only person ogling him. Several heads seem to follow his movement around the pub, including Harry’s best friend Pi, who until tonight I’d always assumed was one hundred per cent straight.
Now, judging by the way he can’t quite find the straw in his drink with his tongue because he won’t take his eyes off Mathias for a second to locate it, I’d be willing to place money on the contrary.
Pi is dressed as Rumi from KPop Demon Hunters.
He’s wearing a long purple wig, denim hot pants so far up his ass I can almost see what he ate for lunch, and enormous joke tits.
I only gave Harry little tits. Mostly because I used the bra I’d bought for Daisy, but he seemed more than happy with the size of them.
“Oi oi!” Harry yells to his best mate before breaking into the opening verse of “Golden.”
“How ya going, Abs?!” Pi shouts back, finally tearing his gaze from a half-naked Mathias. Surely he must see more of him in the showers at training? “Love the costume, mate. You’re whatsherface from Death Becomes Her?”
“Yes, that’s the one!” Harry says, gleeful that someone recognised him. “We need to get some pics.”
They start taking selfies together, but I grab Harry’s phone from him and snap a couple from further back to include their full costumes. Along with his high-waisted shorts, Pi’s also got fishnets and a little crop top on, and it’d be a crying shame if there were no lasting receipts of this.
Harry’s by my side, grabbing the phone out of my hand and bringing up the photos I’d just taken. Pi joins him on his other side, but before I can react and snatch the device back, Harry has scrolled too far, and now we’re all staring at a picture of me wearing nothing but lace knickers.
I had WhatsApped them to Harry before we left, and they’d obviously auto-saved to his gallery.
“Ohh! Hello,” Pi says, figuring it out before Harry, who’s dumbstruck. Just like last time.
“Fuck!” Harry yells, trying to shove the phone in his pocket but forgetting he doesn’t have pockets. The device tumbles to the ground, and somehow he’s managed to swipe to the next photo and simultaneously zoomed in.
I’m bending over, butt to the camera. Clearly visible through the mesh gaps in the lace are my balls and my asshole.
Pi silently picks up Harry’s phone and hands it to him. “Sooo,” he says after a few moments in which the only thing Harry has done to communicate with either of us is stare at me with owl-like eyes. “You fellas fancy a drink?”
“Sure, thanks, Pi. Harry’ll have a lager and I’ll have a white wine. Cheers,” I say.
As Pi leaves, his face cracks into the biggest smile ever. He spares one over-the-shoulder look at his friend, who’s still shell-shocked.
“When did you take those?” he whispers after a few moments have passed. He finally remembers he’s holding a matching red clutch bag and tucks his phone away.
I lean in close, making sure my lips just about brush his ear. “Whilst you were off having a wank.”
His breath stutters. I don’t think it’s normal for a guy to tease his friend like this and take so much pleasure from it, but what would I know? I’ve never had a proper guy friend before.
“I’ve got a question,” I say, suddenly very curious. “Have you ever thought about doing what we do with Pi?” I ask.
“Ew, god no,” Harry says, slipping out of his stupor.
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“Guys! The costumes!” Daisy says, running up to us. Or, well . . . some weird plantlike semblance of running. Scuttling? “Have you voted yet? They’re going to announce the winners soon.”
“Yeah, we voted when we arrived.” Harry’s cheeks are still bright pink from earlier, but if anything, it suits the costume.
“We voted for you guys,” Serasi says.
“Aw, thanks, Steve Martin,” I reply. “We voted for us too.”
Serasi rolls her eyes. Under her crunchy little mask, I imagine Daisy doing the same.
The Halloween music stops, and everyone turns to face the person who’s standing in front of the bar.
“Alright, everybody!” Owen says into a microphone.
It echoes about the place through the speakers.
“Thanks for coming this evening. This might be the best turn out yet. You’ll all be pleased to know that we’ve raised over three thousand pounds for charity tonight, and there’s still time to raise more money.
Every drink sold will put another quid in the pot. ”
Someone dressed as a clown hands him a piece of paper. I think it’s Vivian.
“Right,” Owen continues. “It’s time to announce the awards.”
Cheering fills the pub. This is what we all came for.
“First up. Best individual costume is . . .”
Someone starts a drumroll on the bar top. It gets echoed throughout the pub across slapped thighs and foot stamping.
“Finn Eggington as . . . Diglett? Does that say Diglett? What’s that? Oh, a Pokémon? Okay, sure, everyone welcome Finn to the front.”
The crowd applauds.
“Eggo!” Harry booms in his deep, put-on sports voice.
“Eggo! Eggo! Eggo!” people chant.
Next to Finn, Mathias looks overdressed. It appears Harry’s other teammate has decided that leaving the house wearing only a massive brown helmet that falls to his shoulders and a pair of brown skintight underpants was a fun, family-friendly idea for a costume.
It’s a choice, for sure.
“Congratulations,” Owen says, as all the other Cents lads holler and rhythmically punch the air with their fists. “Your prize is waiting for you at the bar. Unlimited drinks all evening!”
There’s more cheering. Eggo bows, but has to hold on to his headpiece.
“Would you like to make a speech?” Owen says, holding the mic out.
Eggo takes hold of it and manoeuvres it under the stiff fabric of his helmet-mask. “Diglett, dig!” he squeaks.
Owen wrestles the mic back from him. “Oh-kaaaay. Now the prize for the best couple.”
Viv passes Owen another note, and Owen opens it.
“Congratulations . . .” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Madeline Ashton and Helen Sharp, or as they’re also known, Orlando Oakham-Goodwin and Harry Ellis.”
“Get the fuck in!” shouts Harry from beside me.
I grab his hand, and we make our way to the front.
“Do you feel bonita?!” someone yells out. I think it’s Dan.
“I feel fucking muy bonita!” Harry screams, throwing his hands in the air, revealing sweat patches under each of his arms.
Nobody seems to care. His teammates are whooping and wolf-whistling.
Owen doesn’t offer us the mic to make speeches, and honestly, I can’t say that I blame him. Harry is sure to say something along the lines of, “Ha ha ha, in your face, Mathias Jones.” Not that Owen would have any inclination of Harry’s distaste for his boyfriend.
Or does he? Is it as obvious to everyone else as it is to me? I remember that video Daisy sent me months ago. “This is the lad who has beef with Matty.”
As our prize, the bar is opened for us and we hit it hard, drinking until the “last round” bell rings at two forty in the morning.
When the lights come on, it feels like our eyeballs are being sandblasted, but we’ve spent the entire night wrapped up in each other’s arms. Nobody mentions it until Pi drunkenly stumbles back from the toilets. He grabs my arm and pulls me outside.
“Ew, did you wash your hands?” I say, brushing his damp fingers off my silk blouse.
“I really like you. I think you’re really good for him,” he says between hiccups. “But . . . you need to . . . wait, okay . . . don’t break his heart, okay?”
“No, that’s not how you’re supposed to threaten someone,” says an even drunker Dan, slurring his words. He appears to be waiting for a taxi.
“What am I supposed to say?” Pi asks Dan.
“You’re s’posed to say, ‘Don’t you fucking hurt him or I’ll beat the living shit out of you,’” he replies.
“Huh?” Pi looks like a puppy that got lost at the park.
“Say summat like, ‘If you don’t treat him proper, then Imma roundhouse kick you in the face,’” Dan says.
“Aren’t you the beloved captain of the Bath Centurions?” I say to Dan. “Imagine if the ordinary folk could hear you now.”
“Ooh!” Dan swings his eyes from me to Pi like he’s not heard a word I’ve said. “You could use the word ‘mangle.’ That’s a good word. I’ll mangle your face.”
“My face?” Pi asks, still confused.
“No . . . wait, Orlando’s face.”
Pi spins around to look at me. “Oh, yeah, that. Don’t be mean to him. I work out, and I’m older than you, and we all do sports.” Pi nods his head, convinced he’s got it bang on. He leans close, and hot boozy breath spills over my cheek. “Please treat him goodly.” Hiccup. “I think he loves you.”
A black taxi cab pulls up, and Dan climbs into the back seat with his wife. Pi drops my arm and rushes over.
“You getting in too?” Dan says, seeming nonplussed in both the UK and US meaning of the word.
“Wait!” Diglett says, running out of the pub holding onto his helmet. He hops into the front, and the car pulls away.
“Hey,” Harry says, joining me outside. His wig is lopsided, lipstick non-existent, and his eye makeup has smudged into his now bloodshot eyes.
“Hey,” I reply.
“What did Pi want?” he asks.
I don’t tell him the truth. I don’t know why. I loop my arm into his and we head across the road to fetch our trainers out of my car. “He wanted to tell me that he fancied me.”
“What?!” Harry stops smack bang in the centre of the street. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him he’s not my type.”
Harry actually looks relieved, and it pulls at something painful in my chest.
We walk home together under the light from the moon and my torch. It’s cold, but our beer blankets are doing an excellent job of numbing us to the now November temperatures.
“You know we’re just friends, don’t you?” I say.
“Of course,” he replies in that chirpy way he does when he’s drunk too much. Though I know he hasn’t drunk enough to forget this conversation by the morning.
“Like . . . we can never be more than just friends.” I pause. Wait for his response. Hold my breath.
“Why n—” He cuts himself off.
He was going to ask why not.
I don’t know if it’s that he doesn’t want to hear the answer or if he’s afraid of it, but I need to tell him. I just have to figure out a way that doesn’t put any of the blame on him, because this is an Orlando Oakham-Goodwin problem.
“We’re not compatible as anything more than friends. You and I have different needs, and neither of us can meet them.”
I will never be the right person for you. I will never be attracted to you as you are to me, and I can never expect you to love me unconditionally if I won’t let you love me in the ways you need to love a person.
I can’t get those words out.
Harry is twenty-one years old. He’s horny. He’s a typical young man with a typical young-man’s desires. I can’t be the person who denies him basic needs and expects the world in return.
“I know,” he says, in that same tone. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with Lionel, and .
. . you’re not Lionel.” I can’t figure out if he’s saying it to make me feel better, and I guess maybe it doesn’t matter.
The fact that he has his sights set on someone else comforts me a little.
Hopefully his friend Pi was wrong about Harry loving me.
“No, I’m not Lionel.”
I fucking wish I could be Lionel. I wish I was like everyone else.
“Can we still carry on cuddling and stuff like that? Can we still kiss?”
“I don’t see why not. We can do other stuff too, you know, like carry on doing what we’ve been doing. As long as we both understand it can’t go any further than that.”
He nods. “Okay, good. I like kissing you.”
“Same. You’re really good at it.”
“And those knickers, oh my god. If . . .” He hesitates. “If I start seeing someone, not necessarily Lionel, just another human being, this is . . . probably gonna have to stop.”
“Yes,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to add.
“We could still be friends?”
I realise I’m wringing the torch in my hands, not even shining it down at our feet any more.
“If that happens, we could still be friends. Can’t we?” he asks again.
I shrug.
Harry doesn’t respond, doesn’t repeat himself, doesn’t demand I answer his question. “It’s okay. I get it. That would be . . . so weird for everyone.”
Does he get it? Does he know that the moment he starts dating someone we’ll have to stop hanging out because I’ll try to sabotage everything? Destroy his chance of happiness? Just so he can stay miserable with me forever?
The second we step through the door to my place, Harry strips off his clothes like he always does.
He’s kicking off his trainers and pulling off his wig on the stairs, and trying to tug his dress over his head on the landing.
I don’t know if anyone is visiting this weekend, or even if my father is home, but before we’re in my bedroom, Harry is wearing nothing but smudged eyeliner and a jockstrap.
He loses the jockstrap over the threshold to my room and claws his way under my sheets.
I fetch us a glass of water each, and some paracetamol for the morning, and I plug both Harry’s phone and mine in to charge.
Harry has changed his lock-screen picture from his twin niece and nephew to one of me and him.
A candid shot taken a few months ago at Owen’s community match.
Molly had been going around snapping pictures for the ’gram.
Harry and I are standing in the centre of the pitch.
I can’t remember the exact moment this happened, but I have a feeling it was during the second-half warmup.
Harry’s side is pressed against my front, and I’m planting a sloppy kiss on his temple.
His face is screwed up like he hates it, but he’s laughing, ruining the faux disgust.
I want to open his phone and look through his photos from that day. I know his pin code—2809, the date of his very first match with the Cents main squad—but I’m too frightened of what I’ll find.
This is all my fault. I led him on—lead, actually, because I continue to do it.
I kiss him and tell him he’s beautiful, and we fall asleep pretzeled in each other’s limbs. I cook for him, and look after him when he’s drunk, and give him perfume, and let him use me as a glorified wank sock.
As though he’s heard me thinking about him, he moans. “Babygirl, what are you doing?” His words are muffled by my mattress. “Come to bed.”
“Just going to put some PJs on.”
Harry grunts in reply.
I need to stop doing all these things. The cuddles, the kisses, the gifts, the little moments that tear my heart open and then stitch the pieces back together stronger.
The longer this goes on, the harder and more painful it’ll be when I have to give him up.
I should end it all right now. Cut us both off. Set him free.
I won’t, though.
Because I’m a selfish asshole.