Work Text:
One Two's flat is an exercise in contemporary wealthy minimalism by someone who has learnt about it from a TV makeover show; everything is sleek, faintly Japanese, and the result of ill-gotten gains. What can you do but mock him relentlessly for his unexpectedly snobby tastes, eat everything in the fridge (fuck all, and half of it is stuff Bob wouldn't touch with someone else's, weird cold-and-spicy stuff that's as stuck-up as his bedroom), and pointedly leave curry menus under the kettle?
It's not as if they come from the same place, he understands; Bob is a good boy from a good family who took a turn for the worse and kept on heading down, and One Two's clawed his way up to his current height from the very depths, luxuriating in everything his old man never had. But there's only so much self-conscious social climbing you can take of an afternoon.
"I need to borrow a shirt," Bob says, announcing his presence with a sharp, loud chew. It is a disgusting habit, and Mumbles has been quick to point out that he can hardly call his body a temple when he drinks like that and fucks all those blokes, but he's giving up smoking and staying given up; Mumbles wasn't around to see how bad Christine died. Pancreatic cancer and smoking go together like dogs and puppies, and Bob's got no ambitions toward chemo and loneliness.
"Fuck," One Two spins on his heel, doing up his own shirt, his face frozen in a heart-attack of surprise. "Stop fucken doin' that or I am going to take my key back, I swear to you, Bob."
"Yeah, yeah. Then who's going to save you from Russian gangsters? The police?" Bob makes a performance of peering into the shadows of One Two's shirt as he buttons up. There's no point; he's seen it all before, but One Two gets so uncomfortable the way no one else does around him, it's almost hilarious.
Almost.
"Are you timing this to get me coming out of the shower or what?" One Two asks with what Bob judges to be mock-grumpiness, as he squats to tie his shoelaces. There's no point in denying or affirming it; One Two clearly tries very hard not to think about it, and Bob frankly doesn't time it any such way because he is through with winding himself up over fucking One Two, thank you.
"I need to borrow a shirt," Bob repeats, pointing at his own denim affair with the white paint splashes up the sleeves. "I can't show up looking like this, he'll throw me out."
"Left side of the wardrobe," One Two grunts, wandering off in the direction of the kitchen. "Why don't you have your own fuckin' shirt, eh? You're s'posed to be gay, Bob, why don't you dress like it, mm?"
"I just do the fucking men," Bob shouts as One Two moves further away, through the flat. "You're the one with the designer shirts and the gay futon and the gay kitchen –" he shoves the wardrobe door along its runners with a lazy flick of his hand and watches it disappear into the end of the wall. "– and the massive collection of women's shoes," he adds in a whisper.
Bob puts his hands on his head and inspects the knee-height shelf. Louboutins, Manolo Blahniks, Jimmy Choos, Prada, Gucci, Casadei, Zanotti, Marc Jacobs, Gasoline, Chanel … it looks like a Harpers-reader's wet footwear dream. None of them have been worn, from the looks of it (two or three dates with a criminal lawyer and he thinks he's a fucking detective now, Bob chides himself, but he can't help looking at the dainty buckles and dinky straps for signs of wear and tear).
"Well, well, well," he says, not entirely sure where he's going to go from here. "What are you doing with this little investment, One Two?"
"You'd better be dressed when I get back in there, Bobski," One Two shouts from the kitchen. "I don't need to see those shitty tattoos o' yours again."
"Scared you'll get a boner if you see me pecs again, are you?" Bob calls back, banter on autopilot, still hypnotised by the rows of elegant, unworn, designer women's shoes. They look like little jewels laid out on jeweller's velvet in the window display of some posh shop.
"Hey, watch it," One Two's voice is nearer. "I will slap you, Robert." The bedroom door opens. "I said on the left –" he breaks off, and Bob knows it's dawned on him.
"You trying to dress hookers up into posh birds, One Two?" he asks, wheeling round, keeping it light.
Much to his surprise, One Two doesn't slap him; all the colour's drained out of his face and he stands there like a statue with a beer bottle in his hand (cans of Red Stripe when he's out with the lads, bottles of San Miguel when he's home with the ladies, the two-faced bastard). "Hey," he says, pointing a wavering finger at Bob, "you don't tell anyone about this, alright Bob? Anyone."
"Am I not good at keeping secrets?" Bob says, mock-hurt. "What's it worth?"
"What's it – oh no, Bob. No. You've had your freebie." One Two folds his arms, and the colour runs back into his cheeks, turned red by its little trip elsewhere. "No."
"A dance," Bob splutters. "I asked you to dance. I danced with Cookie, fer chrissakes!"
"You don't fancy Cookie," One Two says, leaning back and putting all his weight on the f-word like it's the other f-word. "Do you. Do you?" He shakes his head. "It's creepy."
"It's creepy," Bob repeats, deep in disbelief. "You collect women's shoes." He starts to smile, can't help himself; "Do you wear them, One Two? Is that what you do?" They're little mirrored shapes now, arms folded, hands in their armpits, making faces at each other across the bedroom.
"Enough."
"You got anything else in here, have you?" Bob jerks his head toward the wardrobe. "Cocktail dresses? Stockings? You get all dressed up in front of the mirror and do a sexy dance, One Two?" he attempts a brief hip-shimmy for demonstration, but Bob's no dancer; he enjoys it, when he does it, but it's never going to impress anyone and that fucking Bertie hit the nail right on the head when he said Bob dances like a bloody lesbian. "Or do you pretend you're meetin' people up at the big house? Hello, I'm Mrs One Two…"
"Bob," One Two growls, once again stabbing a wobbling forefinger in his direction, "you stop that right the fuck now or I swear to god I will fucking deck you."
"Yeah, if you're not too scared to touch me," Bob says, triumphant smirk on. He'd not been intending to say it aloud, but goading One Two into laying him out is an old sport that rarely sees fruit, and on the occasions that it has he's usually so fucking contrite about losing his cool that Bob's good for a month of free drinks afterward.
"I am not 'too scared' to –" One Two starts, and his mouth snaps shut like a mousetrap. "Fuck you."
"Go on then," Bob says, throwing his arms open wide, "go on then!"
He's not quite sure how he goes from standing with his back to the open wardrobe to lying on his back on the futon with One Two on top of him, red in the face and glaring, but there's probably a certain amount of shoving involved, and he vaguely recalls One Two tripping him on purpose.
"Go on then?" One Two echoes, angrily. "Fuck you, rootin' around in ma wardrobe."
"You told me to," Bob wheezes. One Two is not a small man, and Bob, for all his time in the gym and all his posturing, is. The heavy bastard is going to crush the life out of him in a minute.
"Only the left side, Bob! THE LEFT SIDE," One Two shouts into his face. "Jesus. Have you not heard of a little thing called privacy?"
If Bob had his hands free right now, instead of crushed against his chest between one of One Two's and all of One Two's not inconsiderable weight on top of that, he'd point at his own face with a thumb when he says, "Um, thief?"
One Two ignores the validity of this and snaps, "You've no business, you keep pushin' and pushin –"
"Tell me you don't like it."
"Shut your mouth or I swear I will slap you."
Bob sighs. "How long," he says, punctuating it with a limp twist of the hand that would have been a gesture if One Two didn't have him pinned, "are you planning to keep lying to yourself, eh?"
"Fuck you, Bob, I am not gay." It comes out in one short staccato burst, and Bob know the sentence well. He just doesn't believe it. "Just because I take some pride in my appearance –"
"It was more the gay porn films you're keeping under your creepy shoe collection, actually," Bob admits, trying to point to the wardrobe with restricted hands. "That is a bit of a give-away, that is."
This close to One Two's face he has the satisfaction of seeing every little capillary empty as he goes that corpse-like shade of grey again. "Those are a present," One Two says hotly.
"Yeah? From who?"
"For you, you ungrateful prick."
Bob catches his eye. "One Two, I do not watch porn." He says it with gravitas and more than a little annoyance. It's a fact he's proud of; Bob's imagination has always sufficed. His imagination, his memory, and the fact that he's fucking good-looking and has never previously had that much trouble getting fellas into bed, or bog, or back seat of taxi.
"Fuck off, everyone watches porn." One Two scowls down at him. "Especially your lot."
"I do not watch porn and you know I don't watch porn." Bob tries to stare him out. He's good at staring. "Have I not told you before, I don't watch porn?" He has, and he knows he has, several times. It's a point of pride, and it's one of the few the Wild Bunch will let him brag about without making homo-panic faces.
"I'm not gay," One Two mutters, glaring at him. Bob wonders if he's ever going to be able to feel his legs again, and how pissed off Archy's going to be if they show up to this thing of Johnny's late. Bob's potential black eye will be of nothing more than passing comment, but lateness is worth a dressing-down.
"You're not convincing anyone apart from yourself," Bob says a little breathily; One Two is bloody heavy, "and going by what's digging into my leg right now I'd say you're not doing a good job of convincing yourself, either."
One Two colours abruptly, red as a wino in seconds. "That is a gun, you dirty bastard."
"Oh please," Bob says, displaying his wonky front tooth like a badge with the smile he shines on One Two, "like I don't know an erection when I feel one? Piss off."
The face above him turns an even deeper shade of crimson. "You shut the fuck up."
"That's your dick, One Two," Bob says calmly, even though he can feel his own getting interested, and if he can then One Two will soon, and that's definitely grounds for a slap. "You keep your gun in the back of your waistband."
"You been lookin', you dirty fucking bastard?" One Two asks, his voice cracking in the middle. He's more pink than red now, running through a whole Dulux colour chart of shades.
Bob shrugs as best he can with thirteen, fourteen stone of sexually-confused Scotsman on top of him. "Well, yeah."
"This disnae mean anything," One Two scowls, trying to out-stare Bob and failing. "It's just been a while since I, you know. After Stella." He sounds desperate, Bob notes. But clearly hasn't noticed that they're going to be fucking late if he doesn't stop having his crisis on top of Bob and stopping him from getting dressed properly.
"Actually, I think it means you can stop going mental when I mention dancing," Bob corrects, smirking up at him. "Don't you?"
"Shut your mouth."
"Make me."
Bob's half-expecting the long-threatened slap at first, but One Two kisses him so savagely that the slap seems almost preferable; Bob's head feels like it's being driven through the futon pad and into the floor below, One Two's teeth nearly slicing a chunk out of his lips before they bounce on his teeth and disappear into a less damaging position.
Fuck me, Bob thinks, if I'd known you were this bad I wouldn't have been so bloody keen; but One Two humps his hips against Bob's body and the thought dissipates like so much smoke in the wind.
He hasn't had this kind of kiss since his schooldays, a proper violent panicky lip-smasher with two sets of hips going off against each other through two layers of trousers and brains-off desperation, determined no one's going to catch them at it and turn the whole risky affair into an unending ass-kicking. Bob snatches a breath through dilated nostrils and wishes like hell his hands were free to hold the back of One Two's head, maybe slow him down a bit.
It's not just the kiss, of course; One Two's grinding on him like a fucking horny rabbit and it's somewhere between comical and intolerably hot; Bob's dick says intolerably hot and bangs his crotch up in time to give him more friction, while Bob's brain is conscious that he's late, that he's getting what he wanted, and that One Two is ridiculous. Fortunately his dick's intervention stops him from actually laughing into the guy's mouth.
"Jesus," One Two mutters, right up against Bob's mouth; Bob is too busy gulping down air to answer him. "This is not right."
"You – need –" Bob's boner demands that what he needs is to get laid right the fuck now, but his brain overrides it for once. "– To watch – watch less porn."
"Oh I'm sorry, Bob the … gent-killer … was that not … not good enough for you?" One Two pants, and seemingly against his will he drives his mouth against Bob's throat, knocking his head back and, yeah, okay, maybe making Bob's dick ache a bit.
"We're late," Bob's brain supplies, unhelpfully. "Archy's going to be sarcastic."
"Fuck Archy," One Two says to Bob's jugular, and Bob arches his fucking back. Arches his fucking back, and when was the last time he did that when he wasn't taking the piss?
"I'd rather you did-didn't."
"Did-didn't?" One Two repeats, a breathy half-growl, his free hand – the one that isn't stopping Bob from doing anything with his – running convulsively over the short hairs on the back of Bob's head and neck, stroking his cheekbones with his thumb, "Oh I'm sorry, Mr You Need To Watch Less Porn, are we enjoying our fucking selves now? Is that it?"
"Yes but we're still late," Bob says, aware that he sounds like the swooning heroine in a BBC period drama (of the sort he watched with Christine while she was gently disintegrating from the chemo) rather than the firm voice of reason. "Oh Jesus what is that you're doing."
"… How late?" One Two asks, looking up from Bob's neck and still managing to catch his eye, albeit from an angle Bob's not used to having his eye caught.
"Somewhat," Bob frowns. His dick complains at him.
"Shit," One Two says, releasing Bob's hands and sitting back abruptly into a position which, unfortunately, just makes Bob's legs go even deader than they were.
"Ow. Ow. My legs. Ow," Bob says pointedly, but One Two ignores him, his hands clasped over his face. "We need to be leaving now and you're sitting on my legs and I have the wrong shirt on."
"Shit shit shit," One Two says into the palms of his hands.
"Can you have your sexuality panic when you're not squashing my legs?" Bob asks, to no response. He tries to wriggle his way free, but One Two is heavy, and he still has the fading remnants of a hard-on, and wriggling is not helping matters.
"Shit, where is my phone?" One Two mumbles, his face still hidden in his hands.
"Jacket pocket, usually – we are going to continue this later, right?" Bob makes a grab for One Two's wrists, but One Two gets up and lunges for the wardrobe like a drowning man for a life-ring.
"Shirt," One Two says, throwing something black and expensive over his shoulder in Bob's general direction.
"Oi. You're not going to have another six months of straight panic, I will fucking kill you," Bob says, shrugging off his denim shirt with angry shoulders. He undoes the top button of One Two's ridiculous – he checks the label – Gucci shirt in preparation for putting it on just as One Two turns around, his hands pressed to his forehead.
"When did you get your nipple pierced?" One Two asks, in fastidious disgust.
"Long enough ago that you can yank on it if you want," Bob says, without his customary leer. "We're late."
To his surprise, One Two thuds to his knees on the edge of the futon and kisses him on the forehead. "I am going to hold you to that, Bobski."
"Er. Right. Okay," Bob says, buttoning the shirt up as quickly as he can. "So no –"
"I'm not gay," One Two reminds him, pulling him to his feet by his armpits with worrying ease. "Just you remember that."
"I hear the word is bisexual," Bob agrees, under his breath.