Work Text:
Ashley and Stuart have been fucking for months. Nevermind how it came about. They don’t talk about it. In fact, they don’t talk about this thing between them at all. They fuck, and it’s simple, and talking is not a part of it. You could even say that not-talking is a very big part of it.
Except Stuart Bayldon is possibly the world’s worst not-talker that has ever existed, and at two a.m. they’re lying in Ashley’s bed, post-fuck, and while Ashley lazily smokes an irritatingly cliche cigarette, Stuart tells the ceiling, “We’ve got to talk about this sometime.”
“We don’t, though,” replies Ashley, very calm and matter-of-fact, and Stuart rolls over to glare at him. “Fine. If it’s killing you, you talk.”
So Stuart talks, and Ashley smokes, and Stuart climbs out of bed to pace and Ashley’s out of cigarettes, which means he’s out of something quite cool to hide behind, so he winds up talking as well, much to his annoyance and Stu’s visual relief.
“Feelings, then,” Stu sighs like it’s terminal. “What do we do about that?”
“Think you’ll find people in our situation go on dates.”
“Mate, we go out loads. We went out tonight with Rachid.”
“Unless Rachid is a part of this whole ‘feelings’ thing you’ve unloaded here, you’re gonna want to take me out proper, you cheap prick. Food and flowers. Now that there’s feelings, this cock ain’t free.”
“Twat,” Stuart says, but they get dressed again in clothes that smell like the bar where they left Rachid pulling a veterinarian's assistant in a leather miniskirt. He buys Ash a trashy kebab and they sit in the unflattering fluorescent light and plastic seats, not-talking for some time while Ashley digs in with a well-fucked starvation. “Seriously rethinking this whole thing,” Stuart tells him, blatantly stealing a chip. “Get some fucking manners. You’re putting me off my food.”
“My food,” Ashley says, not giving a shit and tucking in to prove it.
“I bought it. It’s a date, remember? Technically speaking, that’s my property you’re inhaling.” He eats the chip anyway and nods. “Right. Feelings cancelled. Your own disgusting fault I don’t love you anymore. Maybe if you chewed instead of -- what?” Ashley actually has stopped chewing and is giving Stuart a serious case of panic-eyes over his kebab. “What? Oh. Shit.” Ashley nods, and swallows without finishing chewing, which would be a point in Stu’s favor if he wasn’t rapidly descending into a patented Stu pit of despair and if Ashley wasn’t half-choking on mystery meat. “Shit. Didn’t even get to buy you those flowers before fucking this one up, huh?”
“You fuckwit,” Ashley agrees, rasping and half-winded. He gets up abruptly, but rather than storming off into the night, comes around to Stuart’s side of the booth and shoves him over, drags his kebab basket to their side, and then gives Stuart a very pointed cigarrete-garlic-cumin kiss.
“You’re crap at running away,” Stuart tells him, uncertain but not uncertain enough to not take another chip.
“Between us two, you’re even more a runner. Hence the trap.” Ash steals the chip back and gestures to himself before popping it into his mouth.
“Yeah, well. I might’ve already done. Run away for a while.”
“Wait -- was I that bout of food poisoning you had a few weeks back?”
“Full on life-crisis. Curtains drawn. Fuck you for that.” Stuart isn’t looking at him, and Ash suspects if he hadn’t swapped seats there would be some sudden emergency that would leave him ditched on their first date in the world’s shittiest kebab shop.
“That’s cute,” he says, and eats another chip like it’s normal, jabbing Stuart with his elbow on purpose while he does so. “Thanks for not offing yourself.”
“Well, the sex was good enough to keep me hanging on a while longer.”
“The sex was fucking mind-blowing, thanks very much. And will be again in, oh, half an hour. Provided this kebab doesn’t give me actual food poisoning.” Ash shoves the basket away and tugs Stu out of the booth. “C’mon.”
It’s a clear night, and they walk in quiet, greasy fingers entwined. Neither of them talk about it, but not in a not-talking way. It’s just a natural thing, to walk hand-in-hand after a date with what might be your boyfriend (which is another talk altogether). Almost back at Ashley’s place, he slows to a stop and makes an indecisive face that Stuart one hundred percent believes means he actual is going to puke the fucking kebab back up because that’s just kind of how Stuart’s love-life goes, except what happens is that instead Ash nabs a fistful of flowers from someone’s front planter and offers them to Stuart with such a self-assured look that it’s obvious he feels a proper idiot. “I owe you these.”
“What, stolen pansies for a crap kebab?”
“No, because it’s a date, you prick.” He shoves them at Stuart again, until they’re taken with an eye-roll and a pleased little smile. “I’m not gonna say it back yet,” he warns, and captures Stuart’s free hand to keep him running away properly with all this open pavement literally ahead of him. “But. That’s on me. Not about you. Alright?”
“Alright. Got it.” For a moment, they’re quite serious, properly adult and full of big thoughts and nauseating feelings. Then Stuart gives Ash a stolen-chip kiss and grins. “First date, complete. Now, didn’t you promise me a shag?”
“I promised you a great shag,” Ash corrects, and tugs him onward, toward home and bed.