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It’s been lying in his stomach like a brick for weeks.
A five-stretch.
He tries not to think about it, but then some fool will bring it up, make some stupid comment. “You’ll be alright, Bob. Nothing to it, Bob. It’s just five, Bob”.
They’re trying to reassure him, but it only ever makes it worse, rams it home. Five years. Five whole years. A fifth of the time he’s been alive, for fuck’s sake.
He’s not sure how it got locked down so tight that it’d be five, but everyone says so. Worse than what One-Two did. Worse than Archy, even.
In the Speeler, he tries to keep it cool. Hand of cards, bit of a laugh. But some of these geezers aren’t half insensitive.
He can't let on how it makes him feel, until it's all just too much one day and he blows up. That feels a bit better, and anyway, Fred is a fuckwit. Stupid hat, stupid face, stupid comments.
He sees the look Mumbles gives him then. Mumbles is alright, though. Him and One Two and Mumbles have a laugh. They’ve always been cool. He looks round to find One Two. He’s always got some scheme going with that posh accountant bird and Mumbles. Maybe they’ll let him in on a bit of the action.
Then he remembers. Five-stretch. He’s up tomorrow, the beak’s going to throw the book and then he won't be driving anywhere, having a lark with One Two and Mumbles and whatever mad fucking scheme they’ve got going with that accountant.
**
He’s not sure where Mumbles went off to, but it’s just him and One Two in the car, the lights reflecting on the wet street and One Two’s driving, laughing about some stupid thing someone did but he’s not listening, not really. One Two’s voice is a soothing rumble and his big hand is on the gear lever and the muscles in his forearm flex as he changes gear.
He cuts his eyes across, past One Two’s hand to his knee, sprawled slightly as he takes his foot off the clutch, and up his thigh.
And now One Two is saying something about take-off time and the Harris Twins and oh god it’s now or never. He can’t, he just can't handle a party, all the guys, escorts, blow, loud insinuations, back slapping, the weight of expectation, then taking one of those girls into a back room and … No! Not tonight!
The brick in his stomach feels like it just got bigger. His head is pounding. He can hardly breathe. One Two’s looking at him with a pleased smile like he just planned the best night ever and he thinks he did, but, no! Not tonight.
“It’s not that I’m not grateful. It’s just that, um …” oh god, this was a mistake. He can’t go on.
One Two gives him a baffled look. “What? Just what?”
“You wouldn't understand —”
“Come on, Bobby-boy, that’s not fair. I’d understand anything, coming from you.”
And One Two’s smiling, nodding along to the shitty music on his car stereo.
“Would you?”
“Bob, you’re my best mate.”
It’s true.
“Y’see, I don’t want the strippers, One Two.”
One Two nods. “’Kay.”
“I want you.” There, he’s said it. No going back.
One Two doesn't react, at first. Then he grins, snorts a half-laugh, looking over.
“Yeah,” One Two says, disbelieving.
Bob just looks back. Steady. Heart pounding a million beats a minute, blood rushing in his ears. Trying to look calm.
One Two finally seems to understand.
“Ah fu—” He slams his foot on the brake, throwing Bob forward.
“Dirty bastard!” Opens the door, gets out, slams it.
The windows are down but there’s no air in the car.
One Two walks round the bonnet. “You dirty bastard!” Back to the driver’s side, round the front to Bob’s window. And now One Two’s ranting about girlfriends and he feels sick and tears, tears! —Fuck! he can't fucking cry in front of One Two as well — tears are threatening to choke him.
“I told you you wouldn't understand!”
One Two’s anger is hitting like a backhanded slap and he’s raving about showers and his cock -- and his stomach is clenching around the bloody brick and he can't help the noise that comes out of his mouth.
“I should have just kept my mouth shut.”
And One Two agrees. Of course he does, and he’s still standing on the pavement yelling and waving his arms and if he wasn't, Bob would be leaning out and heaving his guts into the gutter. He rocks forward, face in his hands, feeling the wetness spilling from his eyes and shit now he is about to cry and then it hits, worse than anything else One Two has said: “Fag Bob!”
Fuck, it’s like school all over again.
He can't move and even though One Two isn't standing there anymore, blocking his way, he can't get out and walk off into the darkness down the street away from this, this nightmare.
How could he ever have thought this would go any better?
But One Two comes back round the car and gets back in and just sits there.
“I am so, so sorry,” Bob says, sniffing and rubbing his face and into his hair.
“I'm sorry,” says One Two.
“No, I'm sorry.”
“No, I'm fucking sorry!” says One Two and then he’s apologising, sort of, in his stupid, stupid way and then oh god he just can’t stop himself and all the fear just comes up.
“Five years! I don’t know if I can handle it.”
And One Two’s looking at him, all concerned, and he doesn't seem put off by Bob’s heaving chest and snot and tears and he keeps trying to explain and Bob can't really hear him but his voice is kinder now and that’s almost worse.
“Oh god!” And he hears an embarrassing keening noise come out of his mouth and One Two’s still talking and he says some stupid shit about all of “your lot” waiting inside and then he goes quiet and asks in a weird sort of way, “What exactly is it that you want to do to me then … Bob?” with this strange little twisted smile in his voice.
**
“Down here. Park here.”
One Two gets out of the car and comes round and opens the fucking door and waits for him to get out. Like they’re on a date or something.
He’s been to this club before. Stood against the bar, looking out across the dance floor, letting the music wash over him — silly, happy Latin music — watching the dancers. He can't dance like them and no one approached him as he stood there, beer in hand, feeling the pulse of the music and the warm glow of the lights.
He knows they’re not really dressed for the place, and he wishes his eyes weren’t red, but it’s dark at the door and the bouncer doesn't notice. He smiles at the guy and to his complete surprise, they are let in.
One Two lets out a low whistle as they step out into the room. Looks around at the couples dancing. It’s an upbeat number and complicated steps are keeping most of the men out of each other’s arms.
He gives One Two a shove towards the bar. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Yeah, right,” says One Two.
Once he’s got a whisky in front of him, One Two looks sidelong at him.
“I'm a bit surprised, to be honest, Bob. Didn't expect this.”
“What did you expect? Leather? Really, mate?”
“Well, I don't know what you poofs, I mean you gays … Ah, you know what I mean, Bob …”
And he’s had enough of this from One Two. Feels a bit bolder now they’re in the dim club with the drinks and the music.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What? Gay?”
“No, po—”
“Ah, come on, Bobby-boy, I don't mean anything by it. Ya know me, I love you, man.”
And that hits like a punch.
“Do you?” He looks at One Two, who smiles a sort of wavering half-smile and slides his eyes away. “Do you?”
“Well, not like that, Bob, don’t be stupid.”
“Yeah, not like that. Just don't say it.”
One Two looks at him, narrowing his eyes. “Okay, Bob, right.” He downs his drink.
Bob turns to look at the dance floor. The music has slowed down and some couples are swaying close. One Two glances over his shoulder. “Do you wanna …?”
Of course he fucking wants to! He swallows. “Um … Yeah. Would you?”
“Sure, Bob. I can dance with ya.”
Bob turns to put his glass down. One Two takes a breath and punches him on the shoulder. “Can you dance, though, Bob?”
“Fuck off!” he says, trying to laugh but only succeeding in getting out a strangled breath, trying not to fall over his own feet.
Out on the floor, One Two starts showing off — fancy moves, turns, looking round at the other guys. Bob can't dance like this. This isn't why he came here. He sways in place, looking at his feet. Fuck! This was a mistake.
But then, One Two’s big hand falls onto his shoulder and he is tugged closer.
“I fucking knew you couldn't dance. You may be a … but I've seen you try to dance before. Come here,” he says, sort of rough, but soft at the same time. Bob trips slightly, falls against One Two’s chest.
He’s never really thought of himself as small before, but he knows One Two is big. He can't help the sound that comes out of his mouth as he is pulled in closer. He can't decide where to put his hands, so he rests them on One Two’s waist. One Two’s hands are on his back and he can feel his own heart beating so hard in his chest he can't breathe, almost, and another weird noise falls out of him.
It’s dizzying, so close to One Two, surrounded by him. He lets his hand drift downwards, to One Two’s arse and god! he’s wanted to do that for a while, can't believe he’s being allowed to.
But One Two reaches for his hand and moves it up again. It’s firm, but he huffs a soft laugh and draws Bob closer, cupping the back of his head and pulling it down onto his shoulder. The music is too insistently upbeat for dreaminess, but Bob starts to drift, One Two's gripping his head again, and he noses in under One Two’s jaw and is nearly overcome by his pulse and his sweat and his faint stubble.
Fuck! And the music is all around them and the lights are swirling and he has wanted this, just this, more than he has wanted anything.
One Two puts up with him shuddering and sniffing him for a minute or two more, but then he pushes back. Bob is forced to look up.
“Wanna try actually dancing?” One Two asks.
Not really, but he can tell he’s had all he’s going to be allowed, so he smiles, and nods and takes One Two’s offered hands and they part and sway back closer and he moves his hips and it’s not the heat of One Two’s chest and the smell of him and the feel of his hands on the back of his head, but he’s grinning at Bob and holding his hands and maybe it will be enough.
It will have to be enough to keep him from going mad through a five-stretch.