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Michael Groff has always hated these conferences. They may seem innocuous enough on the surface: just a chance for teachers to meet one another and learn ‘new things’, but scratch that surface and they are an absolute nightmare. Words like ‘synergy’ and ‘networking’ are being thrown like missiles; teachers are simpering after headteachers, arse kissing in the most thoroughly unpleasant ways; and, worst of all, there are the parties .
Coming into teaching, Michael had expected (and hoped) that teachers would be a fairly restrained bunch: professional, serious, promoting good, solid educations for their students. It had only taken one of these bloody conferences to shatter that illusion. Now, on his fifth - or maybe sixth, he tries not to keep too close a count - teaching conference, he has taken a slightly different tactic to surviving the whole blasted thing: he is getting hammered .
It’s the third party of the week, and it is well past 9 PM, which Michael habitually keeps as his ‘ bedtime’. Everyone around him is blurring into one vast, shifting mess of colours and shapes, and he is clinging onto his drink with the urgency of a drowning man, clinging to a buoy. He can’t remember how many he’s had, or exactly what he’s had, but it feels like his body is simultaneously much lighter, and much heavier than it was at the start of the evening.
It is bad enough that he towers over most of the party-goers, lurking in the corner like a cat left alone to die, but now people are trying to talk to him. One woman sidles up with a distressingly louche grin, her eyes bloodshot and her makeup a little smeared; she asks him to dance, with a waggle of her eyebrows, and Michael all but sprints across the room to find a quieter corner to continue his descent into blind drunkenness. He is accosted a few more times, by another woman (tall, slim, covered in lurid tattoos), and then by a pair of men who introduce themselves as P.E. teachers and ask if he would like to see some of their ‘etchings’. He isn’t clear on what they mean by this, but they both reach in to try and touch him simultaneously, their faces flushed, and he jerks away - willing down the rising, nervous bile in his throat. He will not vomit in front of these lunatics. He is above that.
Finally, after much ducking and dodging - and drinking - he finds a corner that is dark, and quiet, and private. He sinks against the wall, partially praying that it will open up and swallow him down, hiding him from the nonsense that is unfolding in this large, poorly lit (there are flashing disco lights that hurt his eyes and very little else) community hall.
He is granted a few moments peace, able to stew in his drink - some foul-tasting, brightly coloured vodka cocktail he keeps being handed - for a good while, until there is a polite cough from beside him, and he jumps out of his skin, leaping up and chucking the entire ghastly drink down his front in the process.
‘Oh I’m sorry, mate, didn’t mean to startle you!’ comes a voice, from the same direction as the cough, and Michael whips around to glare, and possibly shout, at the person who has ruined his - already fairly terrible - night.
He is immediately greeted by a kind, bearded face, with dark eyes and thick, sloping eyebrows that add to the concerned expression this man is giving him. He can’t remember his name (Peter, Patrick, Paul? Something along those lines.), but he has seen him around, and he immediately feels a little cruel for being so angry.
‘It’s nothing, really,’ Michael winces as his voice slurs; he can feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment, ‘my mistake.’
‘Oh hush,’ the kind-eyed man chuckles, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbing gently at Michael’s chest and belly, ‘weren’t your mistake, I shouldn't've crept up on you like that, is all.’
The man’s voice is warm, Irish, velvet over Michael’s frayed nerves, and he feels himself lean into the touch, as he is patted dry. He can’t remember the last time someone other than Maureen had touched him.
It’s nice.
He thinks.
He isn’t sure if he can distinguish nice anymore, so much of his time is taken up by sneering teenagers or furious parents, ‘nice’ doesn’t really factor into it.
‘I’m Pete, Pete Mallory,’ the man - Pete - smiles, showcasing soft crinkles around his kindly eyes, Michael stares at them, dumbstruck, for a moment before holding out his hand in greeting.
‘Michael Groff,’ he manages, pulling his voice under some semblance of control.
‘Aye, I know that! Moordale’s headmaster, right?’ Pete chuckles, as if he knows something that Michael doesn’t.
‘Yes,’ Michael replies, suddenly feeling like the room is about to cave in on him.
Pete nods, still smiling softly. It’s strange, Michael thinks, in a haze of far too many mixed drinks, having someone smile at him like that. Like he’s a person. Maureen smiles at him like he’s a headcase; Adam never smiles at him; anyone at the school either glares at him or sends tight, unpleasant little grimaces his way. But here is Pete, smiling up at him.
Maybe it is nice.
‘I hate these bloody things,’ Pete chuckles, leaning one-sided against the wall, so he is facing Michael, ‘my school insists on us coming every year, that’s my lot over there.’
He points at a gaggle of people crowded near the door - it looks like they’re pouring all their drinks into a large bucket, chanting loudly. Michael can’t stop the grimace that flits over his face, and Pete laughs; such a warm, rough sound, it makes Michael’s stomach churn a little.
‘Yeah, that’s pretty much my thinking as well, they’re just kids really, hard to get them to a party without some kind of drinking game involved,’ Pete continues, laughing fondly, ‘I’ve had half of them call me ‘dad’ already.’
Michael nods, hoping that it’s an adequate sign that he is listening at least, and feels a small smile creep at the corners of his mouth. Pete continues talking, bemoaning the loud music, the flashing lights, the bizarre cliques that teachers seem to form, and Michael listens - enraptured. His eyes dart over the thick, grey sweep of Pete’s hair, the salt and pepper of his beard, the proud line of his nose. He doesn’t even realise that he’s staring until Pete waves a hand in front of his eyes, laughing kindly, ‘You still with us, Mr. Groff?’
Michael groans softly at the title, ‘Please just call me Michael, I’ve had enough ‘ Mr. Groffs ’ to last a lifetime.’
Pete looks almost sympathetic, and pats his arm gently, ‘Aye, I understand that, hard to feel like a real person half the time, isn’t it? When everyone you see only calls you by your surname?’
Michael blinks, reeling, feeling his head spin a little. It’s terribly strange to hear someone sum up what he is feeling in such a succinct manner. Nobody has ever managed that before. Not even Maureen.
‘Hey, stay with me now, Michael,’ Pete chuckles, resting a hand on his shoulder, ‘you seem like the only bastard around here worth talking to.’
Michael blinks again, his entire world narrowing to Pete’s hand on his shoulder - warm, heavy, applying a pressure that really is nice . He leans into it a little, though he’s unsure how conscious that decision is, and is quietly pleased when Pete leans in as well.
The other man is shorter than him, by half a head or more, but there is a heft to him that Michael can’t help but envy - he has always been tall, lanky, ‘like a stick of spaghetti’ is a favourite of Maureen’s.
Pete doesn’t seem like he has ever been lanky. He is sturdy, solid, the slight roundness of his belly jutting out over his belt. Michael gulps, his mouth suddenly dry; Pete is really quite handsome.
He immediately feels that bile rise in his throat again, the screams, and shouts, and blows to his lanky body all flooding back in one, and he almost collapses against Pete before righting himself, his jaw tightening painfully. Pete holds onto him with a grunt, eyes wide with worry, ‘Easy does it, eh! No need to start falling over now, pet.’
Michael bites his tongue - forcing back a horrible, maidenly sigh - at the diminutive, and at the strength in Pete’s broad shoulders. His head is spinning, his stomach is flipping over like a fish out of water, his legs feel shaky beneath him. Pete holds him steadily, silently, staring up at him with those wide, dark eyes - all kindness and concern.
Part of Michael wants to rebel against that kindness, wants to kick back, prove that he isn’t weak , that he doesn’t need this man’s sympathy. But then, right at the back of his skull, there is a tall, reedy teenage boy, with a shock of red hair and pink cheeks, mooning after his headmaster, hanging on the man’s every word until his father clips him around the head and calls him names that still make his stomach twist in knots.
Pete watches him, still not saying a word - like he can hear what Michael is thinking. Michael prays that he can’t.
‘I could get you a chair, if you need?’ Pete’s voice is so quiet that it’s almost overwhelmed by the loud, pulsing music, and Michael leans in to catch it, bowing his head.
It’s so dark, in their little corner, that he can barely see Pete’s expression, and when the kiss comes it is a burning, terrifying, wonderful surprise.
He can barely respond, at first, his head too full of his father’s curses, his mother’s screams, his brother’s laughter. But Pete keeps kissing him; not pushing, not forcing, just slow, steady, heartbreakingly sweet. Michael shudders, as he feels a tongue pass over his lips, and then - tentatively, fearfully, inch by spit-slick inch - very gently begins to return the soft, careful movements of this strange, kind man.
Six years later, Maureen demands a divorce. One of her reasons - among many - is that he hasn’t
touched
her for so long. Six years, in fact. Michael shivers as she says this, his stomach twisting horribly, and all of his thoughts turn to the soft, dark scratch of Pete Mallory’s beard against his lips, and the smell of vodka on his shirt.