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When Aaron’s six, Molly Jenkins from number eight convinces him to play in her new Wendy House. It’s got black beams and white walls, and she proudly tells him her dad built it for her from scratch. There’s even little flower boxes outside the windows filled with purple pansies, and a tiny vegetable patch in the grass outside for her to grow tomatoes.
It’s the coolest thing Aaron’s ever seen, including the new Manchester United gold holographic collectors cards he got for his birthday, but he huffs and puffs anyway as she drags him inside by the wrist and tells him he’ll be playing the dad and she’ll be the mum, duh.
They putter about, doing the washing up in the sink that’s not plumbed in to anything and having a fight about the non-existent laundry and whose turn it is to change the baby. The baby’s one of those annoying dolls that cries when you turn it the wrong way, and Molly picks it up by its foot so Aaron has to take it off her and give it the stupid plastic bottle until it shuts up.
They stay out there until lunch time when Molly’s mum comes and calls them inside with a laugh and a plate of tuna paté sandwiches and the cool crisps you shake the salt into, and then Aaron has to go because Mark Patterson’s having a footie party at the rec.
Six months later Molly’s brother smashes the Wendy House window playing cops and robbers, stomping on the tomatoes and pulling up the pansies. Her parents scold him and tape up the window, but Molly doesn’t want to play house much after that, too enamoured with the new dolls she was bought to stop her crying. Aaron doesn’t want to play dolls so he stops going ‘round.
It was a nice idea, was all. The house and the baby and the silly arguments.
He starts playing footie more though, after that, so it’s not like he would have had time to play with Molly anyway.
Eighteen, freshly outed and not so freshly depressed, the future looks less like a hazy child’s dream and more like the smashed window. Like he’s lost something even as a weight’s been lifted because he’s not gonna have the white-washed cottage now, is he? No chance.
Jackson would probably be up for getting a flat together at some point, maybe. Somewhere close enough to the village that Aaron can be around for his mum and Adam and Paddy, but in a town so there’s more work for Jackson and more bars to grab a pint in.
The sitcom life’s a scam anyway. No one spends their life curled up on the sofa and getting into food fights over a Sunday roast and drinking tea on the front porch on an icy morning unless they’re on a BBC period drama.
So, nah.
It’s okay.
He’s got one less secret weighing him down and that’ll have to be good enough.
Not like he deserves more anyway.
There’s flowers outside the window of Aaron and Ed’s flat that bloom in the spring, prettying up the place a bit.
It’s not a white-washed cottage with black beams and a veggie patch, but it’s a flat with a bloke he likes (loves, he reminds himself) and stuff that they’ve picked out at car boot sales. An empty vase on the shelf, a decent coffee press in the kitchen, nice sheets they bought last Christmas.
It’d probably be close enough to the fantasy if Aaron wasn’t fucking other blokes on those sheets whenever Ed’s away.
Probably more so if Ed didn’t know about it.
They drag the relationship out until they realise they’re lonely anyway, and then Ed’s nice enough to suggest they stay friends. Lets Aaron stick around, as if Aaron’s got anywhere else to go even if he could.
The flowers in the window box get drowned out by a storm, leaving everything muddy, and the vase smashes one night during an over-excited Mario Kart marathon with Ed’s teammates.
Aaron should probably start believing in signs.
Aaron loves his family, loves Adam and Vic and Leo, and loves the village, really. If you’d have told him that a few years ago he’d have laughed in your face, or decked you, or both, but turns out it’s true. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that bullshit.
He figures it’s enough, too. He’s tried the live-in boyfriend thing, tried domesticity, and it turns out it’s not for him, not the way he’d always thought (dreamt, hoped, made-believe). He’ll surround himself with people he loves, and he’ll shag his way through the blokes of Yorkshire a couple times over, and if there’s still a part of him that dreams of white-washed walls and a baby to feed then that’s just societal bollocks, yeah?
There’s probably a version of reality where that happens. Where Aaron has a string of boyfriends he likes — maybe even loves — and a succession of flats. Where he’s the world’s best honorary uncle, and takes over the Dingle clan, and is happy in a simple, nice way.
Probably.
In this reality there’s Robert.
Robert who’s lightning to the bones, making Aaron want everything. The sex and the intimacy and the slow, hungry looks across every room. Robert who makes Aaron start thinking things he’s long put aside about forever. Country cottages and vegetable patches and kids shouting in the next room. Forever and ever and ever, even when Robert’s marrying someone else.
Later, when Robert’s his, the wants become all consuming. Cuddles on the sofa, and throwing roast potatoes over Sunday lunch with a grin, and sitting outside the pub step — the Mill step — with coffee on icy mornings, watching the village come alive. Aaron has it, all of it. Maybe not the black beams and the white-washed walls, but the rest of it, the bits that matter. There’s even tomatoes growing on the windowsill when Doug gives them to Liv.
Playing house, he thinks sometimes, when he can’t believe it’s real.
Robert asks him to marry him and he does. They ask to marry each other and they do. There’s Liv and Seb and another, maybe, on the way.
Sometimes Aaron thinks it’s too perfect, in that hazy, childlike sorta way. A dream come to life. Yeah, they fight and they get mardy and Robert lies so Aaron does something stupid but then they clear the air and shag until they have to come up for a shower and whatever Robert can knock together from the limited supplies in the fridge.
But, yeah, it’s perfect.
Maybe that’s why Aaron’s not surprised when the metaphorical window gets smashed.
After Robert, Aaron fluctuates between running from domesticity and clinging to it with bloody nails, desperate to recapture the feeling.
He lies and he lies and he lies, mostly to himself. Telling everyone it’s as good; that it’s better, really, that it’s less intense, more stable. With Ben, with Marco, with John.
He lies and he lies and he lies, and the dream world he had with Robert gets put in a box alongside Wendy Houses.
He moves into the wrong flat, gets engaged to another Sugden, thinks he’ll finally be happy enough, and that’s so much safer than losing himself in another person again. He loves John. John’s stable and good and looks at Aaron with gentle eyes. He’s better than Aaron deserves, and Aaron can be happy with him, can see a future that fits in a different box. A less messy one.
It’s good, it’s great, it’s enough.
And then Robert comes home and Aaron remembers what lightning feels like.
Their first Christmas back together is a fucking mess.
Like, the life or death sort.
The recovery afterwards is long and slow and messy. Robert finally agrees to see someone after Paddy locks himself in the kitchen with him for two hours. Aaron doesn’t know exactly what goes down but they both look wrecked afterwards, and Robert sleeps through the night and half the next day and then storms into the pub and asks Liam for a referral.
Every Wednesday he drives forty minutes each way for an appointment and comes back too drained to do much more than crash in front of the telly, but he’s laughing more and jumping at shadows less, so it’s working.
Aaron breaks down on a random day in March and refuses to speak to Robert for a week. Robert camps out on Moira’s sofa until Aaron’s ready, and then they scream about it until they’re both blue in the face and have cried enough to fill the Thames. The divorce, Seb, Liv, John, Kev; they air it all out and are left empty and shattered and new.
Afterwards, Robert orders too much Indian food, puts on his comfies, and starts up his laptop.
“What are you looking at?” Aaron asks, voice wrecked. He winces and puts the kettle on, digs out some weird herbal shit Vic gave them.
“Rightmove,” Robert says, and Aaron’s heart drops into his stomach for a second as the world screeches to a halt before he remembers he’s not letting it do that anymore. Not without proof.
“Okay,” he says, squeezing the tea bag too hard with the back of the spoon. “Why’re you on Rightmove?”
Robert looks up at him with wet eyes from his spot on the sofa. Sometimes it’s impossible for Aaron to remember the bloke he’d first met, cocky and confident but so scared. Sometimes, but the same want’s still there, the same love, the same Robert, and God Aaron’s lucky, he’s so lucky, to get struck by lightning twice.
“I’m lookin’ for a house,” Robert says calmly, though the words crack a little in the middle. Aaron wants to hold him and never let go. “For us.”
Aaron takes a deep breath. “For us?”
“Obviously,” Robert says, frowning as he looks back down at the screen. “Somewhere within a stone’s throw. Not too big, but with at least one spare room. Probably two.”
Aaron brings the tea over, putting Robert’s on a coaster so he doesn’t get distracted and start talking about ring stains. “And, uh. Do we need a new house?”
Aaron’s not opposed, he just needs to know how Robert got from point A to point B.
“Yeah,” Robert says with crystal clear certainty. He scrolls for a minute and then puts the laptop aside. “I mean, I do. I think…I need somewhere I feel safe. Somewhere that can’t—”
“Can’t what?” Aaron asks, curling a leg up so he’s facing him, blowing on his tea. It’s only six o’clock and he feels like he could sleep for a week.
“That can’t be taken away from me,” Robert admits eventually, talking to his hands.
God.
Aaron knows Robert so well, knows him to the bones, and so he knows this. Knows Robert’s never had somewhere that was all his, somewhere that couldn’t be snatched away because he’d upset the wrong person or said the wrong thing.
Couldn’t be kicked out like Aaron did again a week ago, shit.
“Yeah,” he says, curling his hand over Robert’s thigh. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you go. If I needed space, I should have kipped at the pub. But yeah. A house that we both own sounds good.”
Robert takes Aaron’s hand in his, squeezing tight.
It feels like the air after a storm.
They have about a hundred falling outs over the new place. Everything’s too far or too small or too expensive. There’s nothing within a twenty minute drive of the village, and even that feels like too long given family and work and the co-dependant tug of wanting to stay where they fell in love over and over.
They visit two dozen flats and houses and barn conversions before Aaron throws in the towel. Tells Robert to just pick anywhere and he’ll be happy.
Robert sulks for a fortnight, goes to therapy on the Wednesday and then announces he’s got a plan.
He’s gonna apply for planning to build them a place up on Annie’s field.
Aaron thinks he’s gone absolutely insane, but Robert’s set on it. If they can’t find their forever home, he’s gonna build it.
For the next year, Aaron’s life is full of blueprints and calls from contractors and Robert asking his opinion on floorboards and brass hardware. He s’poses this is what he missed out on, last time, when Robert was fixing up the Mill, making it perfect for Aaron when he didn’t even own it. Aaron can barely picture anything except the mess being made by diggers and cement.
Robert being such a devoted homemaker shouldn’t be a surprise, and yet.
Aaron avoids the building site as much as possible — there’s maybe a tiny miscommunication about Robert and one of the brick layers, and okay, yeah, Aaron can be a jealous prick, he knows that and Robert knows that, and it’s fine, the make up sex was banging so all’s well that end’s well, he just figures it’s best to stay away. They’re still at the Mill until it’s done, and Aaron’s starting to feel it creeping closer, the chance of another beginning, a place that’s theirs, totally and completely, both their names on the deed.
A new start set in literal stone.
It doesn’t feel real right up until Robert finds him in the pub, dragging him out to the Land Rover and driving the couple minutes up to the farm.
“Here,” he says, giddy and alive and gorgeous, “put this on.”
He hands Aaron a familiar blindfold.
“Are we shagging in the barn for old time’s sake?” Aaron asks, because this black satin usually only makes an appearance on the sexiest of occasions. Robert just laughs, leaning forward to kiss him. Which doesn’t actually answer the question.
“Come on,” he says, and Aaron hurries to comply, letting Robert lead him up the path, steady arms keeping him from tripping. “Okay,” he says eventually. “Ready?”
“Robert, you don’t need to talk me into shagging you in public—” Aaron starts, but then Robert’s taking off the blindfold, and oh.
It’s their house.
It’s their house.
With white-washed walls and black beams and window boxes ready to be planted.
Aaron’s never told Robert any of it, but it’s there, like something out of a dream.
“I know,” Robert says, and for a second Aaron wonders if they’ve really progressed so far into co-dependency that they can read each other’s minds. “The planning rules said it couldn’t look like the listed buildings around, but I didn’t want it to be modern or stand out too much, so, yeah. It’s like, I dunno. Something off a chocolate box, I guess. Bit bigger.”
“A full sized Wendy House,” Aaron says nonsensically, still staring at it.
A hazy memory plucked out and made real.
“Sure,” Robert agrees, though he has no context. “Do you like it? Too late it you don’t.”
“Robert,” Aaron says, and then he’s kissing him, hands wrapped around his waist. “It’s perfect.”
Robert kisses him back and then pulls away, running the pad of his thumb under Aaron’s eye.
“You’re crying,” he says, concern starting to creep in, and no, nope, none of that.
“You got a kettle up here?” Aaron asks, wiping at his eyes. “Make me a cuppa and I’ll tell ya.”
The dream house and the dream man and the dream life.
Aaron’s still not sure he deserves it, but there’s no take-backs now.
They’ve talked about marriage on and off, some of it an argument and some of it the quiet truth of where they’re both at now, Robert four marriages deep, Aaron three, and even though two of those were to each other, it still feels like maybe they’re just beating the same dead horse.
Aaron loves Robert in a way that defies words. He never thought he was capable of loving this much but Robert’s proved him wrong time and time again. Better still, he knows Robert loves him in the same deep, endless way. Enough to keep coming back, to say it in every word and gesture and quiet glance.
He’d thought, the first time, that it was as close to perfect as it could be, but this? God, this is so much better.
They’re both a mess with more baggage than they know what to do with, but they’re also older and maybe a bit wiser, and more in love than ever, and Aaron doesn’t have any doubts anymore that it’s real.
Robert’s Aaron’s home.
The house — Harker’s, decided on after a few too many bottles of wine, in honour of Robert’s biological mum, and leaving Connolly’s for Vic should she ever want to build her own next door — is everything Aaron’s tried not to wish for since he was six year’s old. Knows it’s everything Robert’s always wanted too, beneath the hurt, in the parts of him that’ve always craved a simple, safe life under it all.
It’s full of so much warmth and hope and quiet peace that Aaron wakes up some mornings just to stand at the kitchen sink and cry, letting the reality sink beneath his bones and take root.
It’s okay. He knows Robert does it too, sat on the front porch and looking over the fields.
So, yeah. They’ve talked about marriage. The past, the present, the various possible futures, and Aaron really thought it wasn’t something he needed. Knew Robert didn’t mind either way as long as they had this, but Aaron was so sure he’d had his share of vows and speeches and toasts.
And then Christmas rolls around.
Their first at Harker’s.
Seb’s already up for the holidays, running around with Isaac and Harry causing mayhem. They’ve definitely spoiled him rotten, the cupboard under the stairs crammed with everything from new headphones to a bike because Vic’s got Harry one and it only seemed fair.
They’re hosting this year, a crazy mix of Sugdens and Dingles, Mack, Ross, Lewis. A full house to squeeze in around the kitchen, every table they own pushed together and laid with real cotton tablecloths Robert found in a charity shop that reminded him of his Gran’s. The tree’s stuffed full of decorations new and old, Vic lugging the old Sugden ones down from her loft and telling Robert it’s his turn to store stuff, and there’s garlands on the mantlepiece and up the stairs.
Robert’s been practicing recipes, plying him with trifles and gingerbread and roast potatoes, and Aaron’s sure he’s put on a stone in December alone.
It’s chaotic and lovely and a little sad sometimes, and then they’re sat in front of the wood burner one night a week before their home gets overrun with their nearest and dearest, groaning under the weight of too many Quality Street and the ham Robert had glazed with Coke two days ago that they’re still working through, and Robert’s chuckling at whatever’s on the telly — some re-run of a seventies comedy show — and Aaron thinks, Oh. This. This is all I’m ever going to want.
It’s not a new revelation, but it’s a cleansing one.
“Hey,” he says, digging his toes under Robert’s thighs. He’s wearing a pair of Robert’s socks because he couldn’t find any of his, and Robert’s got one of Aaron’s t-shirts on. There’s pictures of them and everyone they love on the walls, and Aaron’s going to plant purple pansies in the window boxes in the spring and deck the first person to crack a joke about it. “Hey. Robert.”
Robert hums, running his thumb over Aaron’s collarbone, still watching the telly.
Aaron presses a smile into his own shoulder.
“Robert,” he says again, and Robert turns, blinking at him. He’s washed in low, golden light from the fire and the filament bulbs he’d insisted on using in all the lamps. He’s every wish Aaron’s ever made. “Marry me?”
Robert’s lips catch in surprise, and Aaron wants to laugh.
“Yes,” Robert says after he’s caught up, when Aaron’s smile’s turned soppy and his eyes have started to get damp with how much he means it. He doesn’t need to marry Robert, but God does he want to. “Yeah. Obviously. Yes.”
“Yeah?” Aaron laughs, half joking, half deadly serious.
“As many times as you’ll let me,” Robert says, his own smile blinding, and Aaron has to kiss it.
He can picture it now. Nothing showy; just the two of them and a couple witnesses at the registry office, keeping to the script and saving their own vows for their room upstairs, under their toasty duvet, where they can be as cheesy and as honest as they like. Coming back in their suits and curling up on the sofa, Robert’s smile turning honey smooth.
“This’ll stick,” Aaron says, in his real life Wendy House with the love of his life. “I can feel it.”
The Christmas lights glitter in Robert’s eyes, and Aaron’s home.